


Let's Blow Up That Haunted House

by staringatstars



Category: HetaOni, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bonding, PTSD, Some Cursing, missing memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After America and Italy are saved by England sacrificing his entire life force, and some volunteers, they find themselves struggling to live in the world again, without the memories of the people they care about. Italy can't remember HRE, and America can't remember pre-HetaOni England, but they both remember the most important thing: They've got a house to nuke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Is Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posting from FF.

Eyes bright like sapphires flew open as America woke in a cold sweat. The monsters still haunted his dreams, sometimes. They plagued him when he was awake too, but at least then, he knew they weren't real (Tony nearly gave him a heart attack). Harsh breaths in the dead of night scared him, until he felt the push and pull of air in his lungs, reminding him just who those harsh breaths belonged to. Memories of his escape came flooding back, if an escape it could be called. In the dead of the night, when he was alone, it was okay to call the 'escape' what he and Italy both knew it was. A rescue neither of them had wanted.

England used all of his life, and the lives of their friends, excluding the already deceased Canada, to send him and Italy back. Back to before he'd ever told America about the House where they were fated to be slaughtered like animals. That house where heroes died.

_**Three Weeks Earlier** _

A strangled weeping drew his attention to Italy. While a crying Italy was not something he'd never seen before, this Italy looked exhausted. Only a few seconds before Italy had seemed so excited about some rumor he'd heard.

America shrugged, and tried to place a comforting hand on the brunette's head, but Italy shrieked, jumping back as though his touch had burned him.

"Italy?" America said, growing alarmed. "What's wrong? Is this about what you wanted to-"

"NO!" The word burst forth in a consistent stream of hysterical babble. It was difficult to tell where one refusal ended and another began, but in the end, it simply sounded like a terrible, horrified wail.

Still unsure of the correct course, but determined not to let the nation cry without some form of aid, America reached out and pulled Italy into an embrace. Maybe the nation had been an enemy once, as had most nations at some time, but, right now, he was just someone who needed his help. Italy was his friend.

Almost immediately after being pulled into the hug, Italy's words dissolved into simple, shaking sobs.

And then Germany walked in.

"Vat the Fuhrer did you do to Italy?"

"Oh my" England said, gleeful. "America seems to have spent more than a minute with Italy, and it's driven the poor boy to tears."

The fact that they automatically assumed Italy's tears were due to his callousness was a little annoying. Then again, even America was surprised Italy's distress seemed to have nothing to do with him.

He never meant to make people cry. He just sort of talked and then they burst into tears. In his defense, once England or Canada started with the water works, he usually tried to make it up to them, and if that just made things worse...

America panicked. "This had nothing to do with me, I swear. I don't know why he's crying."

Still sniffling, Italy stepped away from America, desperately trying to wipe his tears.

He said in a trembling voice, gaining strength as he spoke, "Thank you, England. I'm glad you're all right." The green-eyed Englishman, and self-proclaimed gentleman, rocked back on his heels, buffeted by a strong, and entirely imagined, wind. Germany pinched himself to make sure he was real.

"Germany, are Prussia, Japan, France, Russia, China, Spain, Romano…" Italy paused, frowned in deep thought, then continued, "and Canada all right?"

"Well, yes, Italy, but why wouldn't they be?"

"And why did you bloody thank me?" England shouted, his blood pressure rising. "Is this some sort of Axis trick?"

Italy snorted, to the surprise of everyone in the room. "Axis? The Axis has been disbanded for decades. If I actually wanted to trick you, I wouldn't set you up for my elaborate evil scheme by thanking you. Why alert you to my super evil plan for no reason?"

A smile, forced and painful, painted Italy's features even as he talked down to England, the nation he had always seemed to fear more than any other.

Startled by Italy's sudden change in attitude, England looked to his former charge for some sort of explanation, but the boy seemed to be frowning in consternation.

As the whole situation seemed to be spiraling out of control, England opened his second sight to see traces of his magic around both America and Italy. There was a strong barrier of his making in America's mind that seemed to be blocking off some of his memories. However, England didn't remember ever making such a barrier. America's own mental force seemed to be slamming against the barrier, but it wasn't even cracking it. How foolish. If America needed help, he should have just asked.

England, determined to help his charge, stepped past the still railing German nation, and made to step past Italy too, before the Italian frantically grabbed his arm.

Eyes wide with panic, Italy said, "England, that barrier is there for a reason. If you take it down, it will only hurt America."

"Let go of me, you wanker! I'm the United bloody Kingdom, and I will not be treated with such disrespect!"

Italy tightened his grip, as Germany moved to restrain him, "I'm as old as you are. Listen to someone else for once in your life and DON'T TOUCH HIM!" With a jerk, Germany pulled Italy off of England, just as England swept a hand over America's forehead. Blue eyes, wide, confused, and frightened, locked with Italy's amber ones. The face of the younger nation grew very pale, but England didn't seem to notice.

In a low growl, Italy said to Germany, who was still restraining him, "Let. Go."

"Italy, vat's gotten into you all of the sudden? Vat's the matter?"

"I'll tell you in a second, but-"

He cut himself off when he heard England start, "I'm sorry, America, but-"

"Don't!" Italy cried, but it was already too late. The barrier in the young nation's head broke completely, allowing all the memories it had been protecting the nation from to come rushing forth, too fast and too many for him to handle.

His knees buckled, leading to Italy elbowing Germany in the ribs with a savageness the German had always wished for in his ally, in an attempt to make it to the nation before he could hit the ground, but, while the strong arms did release him, it was England who caught his former charge.

"America? Are you all right? What's wrong?" He turned to Italy, tears in his eyes. "What did I do? What have I done to him, Italy?"

Was this the same England who had saved them at the cost of his life? At the cost of everyone's life? He seemed so small and pitiful now, and Italy found himself wondering how he had ever feared him. There were so many memories in his head, full of death and despair, he doubted he could even remember why or how he had feared him if he tried.

"Ve~ You gave him back his memories. Remember the last time he smiled, England. Was it bright? Earnest? Happy? It was, right? Remember that time when he smiles again, because I can guarantee it's going to be a very long time before he can smile at anyone without teetering on the edge of tears, and I want you to know the difference. The difference in his smile is what you did to him." To Italy's surprise, he didn't sound bitter or angry as he spoke, just tired and sad.

The effect his words had on England weren't exactly positive, Italy noted, as he watched the deceptively young face bite back a cry. "What have I made him remember?"

Italy paused for a second, gave the slightly older nation an evaluating look, then let out a sigh. The others would be arriving any second now, and he really didn't feel like smiling or explaining why he didn't feel like smiling. Especially not to the awesome Prussia. Then again, he couldn't just let America wake up alone. Even surrounded by the former Axis and his Allies, Italy was sure he would wake up alone if he wasn't there. "You made him remember how much it hurts to be protected by those he loves." Yeah, that seemed about right. That was the most painful thing about being in that House. For America, the most painful thing wasn't risking his own life, but watching others risk their lives for him. In that aspect, America was very similar to him. Being protected was painful.

There was a brief silence, before America seemed to stir in England's arms. Unfocused blue eyes stared up at them, swiveled around to England's face, then focused. Relief colored his features, though not enough to keep him from looking like an American ghost. If only there had been a mirror in that room.

England quickly found himself enveloped in the large arms of his young ally. It was a hard, desperate hug. Whenever England would visit America after leaving him alone for a long period of time, America would hug him like this. Whenever America, young and small, would beg him not to leave, he would hug him like this. It's been so long since he'd last felt America's embrace, he'd forgotten how warm it was, forgotten how much he'd missed it.

"Damn it, Arthur!" America cried, unnerving everyone once more. "I thought you and Mattie'd died again! Don't scare me like that."

"Alfred." Perhaps now wasn't the best time, but Italy knew he'd figure it out on his own eventually. Regardless of popular opinion, the young nation wasn't slow. "That's not Arthur. He doesn't know who Mattie is. England used the life force of the others and himself to send us back, just like he said he would."

It wasn't something the other nations had been expecting to hear. England still wanted to believe Italy had somehow tricked or scared America. After all, Italy seemed fine now.

"Pull yourself together" Germany began to say, but Italy and England sent him a potent glare that threatened swift retribution if he dared continue.

Trembling, America said, "T-this isn't England?"

"I course I am, you git!"

"I never said he wasn't England." Italy added, irritation spilling over into his tone. "The nation you're looking at right now is the one who raised you, but he's not the one who saved us."

Maybe Italy hadn't been clear enough. There weren't many delicate ways to put 'Everyone you know and love is dead, but not really'. America threw Texas from his face, held up two fingers, and asked England, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

England sighed at what he perceived as America's melodrama. "Really now, such a stupid question."

"Please answer." America pleaded, fingers shaking. He looked young and terrified.

With a considerably softer tone, England replied, "Two. I'm not blind, America."

Just then, Canada, France, China, Japan, and Russia showed up for the meeting. Not wanting to be seen cradling his former charge, England hastily shoved him out of his lap, though he did regret it a bit. Pushing him had been more of a reflex developed over a century of semi-antagonistic relations, than an actual decision on his part.

"England" Canada took stock of the situation, then said, his voice dangerously low, "Why is my brother crying?"

"He's not! I mean, he is, but it's not my fault. Well, it is, but-" Canada continued to approach England, a menacing aura hanging around both himself and his polar bear, Kumajirou. A few days from now, England would swear up and down he heard a growl... The bear may have been growling, too. "Look, there was this barrier, that I made, and it was blocking his memories, but I didn't realize it was blocking bad memories-"

"I told him not to break it." Italy interjected.

"Yes, well, thanks for nothing, Italy. As you can see, Canada, it was an accident. A harmless mistake-"

The two continued to argue as America struggled to his feet. It was like watching the leaning Tower of Pisa trying to right itself. "I'm too damn tall." He grumbled.

Just as he was about to fall, Italy and Germany caught him under the arms.

"Easy there." Germany said, "I don't know vat you and Italy vent through, but you look like crap." It was true. America looked little stronger then a leaf in a storm. His skin was ashen, eyes feverish, limbs still trembled, and most of his weight was being shifted to his left leg. In the last loop, one of the monster's had chomped on America's foot. By the time they managed to free him, all the bones had been severed, leaving only a few strings of flesh and sinew to keep it from falling off entirely.

"Look at your foot, America." Italy grunted. Honestly, he'd spent so much time carrying injured nations back at that House, he thought he'd be used to it by now. "It's not injured or gone, or whatever it is you're remembering. Walk on your own two feet."

"I think I might pass out if I do that, Italy." America replied.

"Russia's here now. You can't afford to look so weak in front of us." The rest of the newly arrived nations were also beginning to crowd, some more concerned then others.

"Why, Amerique, why do you look so sick? Did mon cher England cook for you? You should know by know not to ingest his abominable creations."

Russia added. "Yeah, you look a little under the weather. Maybe you should become one with me? It'll give you more time to recover if I'm running your nation." Russia's childlike face wasn't enough to fool anyone in the room. While it wasn't an unusual offer, the words were practically a threat to someone who couldn't fight back. Even the post-Cold War, slightly less insane Russia wasn't someone it was wise to be unguarded with.

France restrained England, who protested violently against the manhandling, China just sat down at his seat, rather unconcerned with the proceedings, and Canada glared daggers at the larger nation.

They all knew Russia hadn't meant it as a joke.

"Hahaha, why are you all getting so upset. England, I'm fine. Canada, please don't eat Russia. You two are really important to me and I-" America cut himself off when he noticed the other nations gaping at him. "Italy, I think I need to go… anywhere but here."

"You got it." Italy said, then he made good on his word as he started to half-drag/half-carry America towards the door. If he could just get him to the relative safety and tranquility of Italy, he was sure America would recover in no time. Well, he would recover physically. Mental recovery would take much more than a few days of rest and some pasta. Could he even still make pasta? Ah well, he'd get someone else to make it if he couldn't stomach the scent anymore.

At the door, Italy asked Germany to let him carry America the rest of the way. It wasn't like Italy to want to do something on his own, Germany thought, but then Italy said, "You wanted me to be this way, right? Independent. Less smiles and more sternness. Now that I'm exactly the way you wanted me to be, I'm telling you I no longer need your assistance. I can do this on my own, so please stay here and continue the meeting."

The German's face seemed to crumple, it made him look younger. Once, Italy would have cried at the sight. Now, he was used to it. Hurting him happened often in the loops, especially the more recent ones. What must it have been like for the German to turn around all those times, ready to comfort his little Italy, only to find a completely different Italian seemed to have replaced him in the split second he looked away.

"Italy!" Japan cried. "That was too harsh."

England said, "Why do you get to take him? I could take of him."

The two shared a glance before America vehemently shook his head, and Italy answered, "Two idiots cannot be trusted to take care of each other."

"WHAT?! SAY THAT AGAIN TO MY BLOODY FACE, YOU NASTY BLIGHTER!"

Canada added, "I'm his brother, and I'm not an idiot. I should be the one to take him home."

The nations had forgotten how implacable Italy could be. There was a time when he had defended his young land, a time when he was strong. What none of them realized was: That time had not yet past.

"I am prepared to go to war with any nation who tries to harm or possess America while he is under my protection. He is coming home with me, where he will have time to recover. As soon that's happened, I'll bring him back home. Any more objections?"

England opened his mouth, so Italy quickly added, "Does anyone, besides England, have an objection?"

"Don't ignore me!"

America heard the indignant shout as though it were coming from the other end of a very long tunnel.

It was good, comforting even, to hear England so upset. His harsh words hid nothing. He wasn't despairing or trying to act like everything was okay. It was just the normal, abrasive, fun to tease England. America wasn't focusing very well, but he was pretty sure France was doing his best to keep England restrained and to touch his rear. Ha! Good ol' France. In the House, everyone had shown new, brave sides of themselves, but America preferred the perverted and cowardly France over the brave dead one. There was a part of him that wanted to believe he could still be the world's hero, but, deep down, he knew he could barely save himself. If it wasn't for Italy and Germany, he'd still be a broken, gibbering mess on the ground.

Italy glanced up at America, and said, "We're getting out of here." In his mind, Italy forswore tomatoes, pasta, and all arts. Germany had once said those things had made him weak, and, with the minor exception of all the times he was, he was never wrong. Italy was just about ready to hoist the tall American into his arms, when Russia, his perpetual smile looking slightly more smug than usual, asked, "Say, America, before you go, can you tell me what happened in 1776? My memory is so bad these days."

Pasta! This was why Italy had wanted so badly to leave. The rapid influx of memories often left a nation feeling confused, and the oldest memories were always the first to be forgotten. There wasn't enough time to run, and even if he did run with Alfred now, Arthur would sense something was wrong and then chase him down to the ends of the Earth.

"Dunno." America stated, he was smiling when he said those words, so he couldn't have known that he had just honestly and cheerfully said something very sad.

England, France, and Canada looked to Italy as though someone had poisoned all of their tomatoes, set fire to all of their paintings, and then murdered their pet cat. It was the same look they wore when anything awful happened to America, or to each other, in the House, and he had never wanted to see it again.

Furious, Italy turned on Russia, " _Vaffanculo_ , Russia! You're a bully and a jerk, and the biggest mystery in the entire world is: You can't figure out that's the reason no one wants to be friends with you. Who in their right mind would _want_ to be friends with you?"

It came out harsher than Italy had meant it too. The Russia in the House had sacrificed his life to protect his fellow nations, but Italy couldn't imagine that Ivan and this Ivan were the same. The nations had stayed in that house, reliving the same experience, for so long, he was sure they had grown, changed somehow. He had. America had.

This Russia hadn't.

Ivan had always been secretive and scary, but he'd also been a valuable ally, and Italy had, for the first time in his entire life, considered considering him for the consideration of someone who might one day maybe have the potential to be a good friend… to Romano.

"Kolkolkolkolkolkol."

And on that note, Italy hoisted America into his arms, ignoring his protests, then ran for his home country like the devil himself was on his heels.

You know what they say about the more things change…


	2. We're Not Supposed To Do That

America brushed back the sweaty blond hair from his face as he settled more deeply into his covers, and chuckled. Hearing Feliciano cuss out Russia, the world's cutest psychopath, was really worth the day he'd been forced to spend jostling in the arms of a speeding Italian. Well, it should have been a day. Actually, it should have been more than a day, but Italy decided to do that thing he just wanted everyone to stop doing.

He decided to risk his life in a bid to save him.

_**Three Weeks Earlier** _

The second he was sure the other nations couldn't hear him, Italy screamed, "I can't believe I just yelled at Russia. I can't believe I just yelled at Russia. He'sa gonna kill me!"

"Ha ha, that was pretty awesome, Italy." America replied, still managing to keep his cheer despite doing his best impression of a corpse. "Is that the first time you snapped at Russia? I mean," he wanted to clarify, just in case Italy thought he was still confused. "Have there been any other loops where you've snapped at him?"

While they were talking, Big Ben rushed past them, followed by bars, houses, cars, and Baker Street. Honestly, Italy's legs could power a small motorboat.

"I told him to shut up, once. I was scared, and he was being unhelpful."

America furrowed his brow as he tried to narrow down what could have scared Italy that Russia wouldn't have reacted to. Ivan always fought with them when a monster showed up. Sometimes, he even died with them. Dying with Russia wasn't completely awful, actually. They pretty much cracked jokes until they croaked.

Good times.

Eventually, he stopped reminiscing and just asked, "Why were you scared?"

Seconds ticked by, until enough had passed to make him wonder if Italy was going to answer him all. He opened his mouth to repeat the question when Italy spoke up, his eyes continually looking forward.

"It was my second loop. Back then, I still thought you guys would believe me if I told you that the House was dangerous. I told you there were monsters, but no one believed me. Not Germany. Not England. Not Russia. Who would believe a coward's word? Maybe if you had said it-"

"Me? Since when have they ever listened to me? I would have been brushed off, same as you. There was no getting out of there, nothing we didn't try."

He was right. In a half a year's time of loops, they had made no progress. After about a month in, Italy was sure they were going to make it. Similar to America, his many memories had interfered with his recollection of past events, but he'd been so focused on just getting everyone out alive, making no mistakes, he hadn't really thought of his past recollections as necessary. All that mattered was escaping, at any price. America and Japan had noticed his exhaustion, how hard he pushing himself just to smile and laugh like "normal" Feliciano always did, and they reached out to him. Even Ivan did… sort of. Sometimes…

England just yelled at him.

 

There wasn't much for Germany to do after Italy beat a hasty exit with the American except make amends with Russia and try to make sure none of America's allies charged out the door. For someone who claimed America was an idiotic, Grade A, pain-in-the-arse, England sure was dead set on retrieving him.

On a slightly scarier note, Canada never rose his voice when he threatened to beat the German blocking his path to death with a hockey stick. While Germany was fairly sure he could survive a hockey stick attack, and would heal quickly from any wounds such an attack might inflict, there was something about Canada's matter-of-fact tone, not to mention how the polar bear was looking at him, that told him he needed to tread carefully around the quiet brother.

That 'something' could've also been the vague memory of Canada forcing his men to retreat in 1943. It was vague because Germany did his best to pretend like that loss never happened.

At least not all of them seemed to have absolutely zero faith in Italy, since France seemed rather okay with settling back into his seat.

England had to be tied to his… and gagged.

If not for the whole fiasco with America and Italy, France would have counted this as one of the best days of his life.

As the meeting wore on, Germany tried to focus the group's attention on solution's to matters such as unemployment and overspending. It was an exercise in futility. His own bruder wasn't listening to him. No, wait… that was nothing new.

When France noticed England still hadn't stopped struggling against his bindings, he leaned in close, and whispered, "Mon cher Angleterre, I know you are worried about little Amerique, and I know what you are thinking, but he has not forgotten you. He said you and Canada were important to him, did he not?"

He paused as though waiting for an answer, then continued when England proved too gagged to say anything.

"You seem to think Amerique stopped caring about you after he won the Revolutionary War, but you do him great injustice. I have watched him closely over these many years, and he has never stopped trying to protect you."

Big, caterpillar-like eyebrows furrowed in obvious disbelief.

"Once, when you fell asleep at a meeting, Russia tried to wake you up with his blood encrusted pipe." Emerald green eyes widened a little, their terror unmistakable. "Your little American placed himself between you and Russia, protecting you from harm. He ignored his century long isolation policy in order to defend you from Germany's forces, and ignored it again the next time you were in trouble. Let's face it, Angleterre, if he didn't always call himself a hero, we'd have to do it for him. However, he doesn't want to be feared or adulated. He just wants to be treated like an equal, and so, we ridicule him when he speaks, don't offer any advice, and leave him to flail when he's in trouble. That is because, mon ami, we are- how you say- jerks."

If America needed help, he should have asked for it, England thought, furious that France would dare lecture him when he had no means of fighting back. Just wait until he's free, Frog, he's going to-

"Back then, Amerique begged you to listen to him, didn't he? He tried to tell you about the colonists, he tried to get you to listen to him, but you didn't want to. You, mon cher, just wanted to tell him what to do. Amerique never wanted to leave you, you declared his people, the only family he'd had for a hundred years, traitors. What choice did he have but to leave you, Angleterre? He may have forgotten, but I remember the day I arrived to help him win the war, when he asked me not to hurt you. For how long do you think he cried alone after he defeated you? That's the worst thing about Amerique, mon cher. He is too much like you."

Good, France thought, when England stopped struggling. The words seemed to be sinking in through the several inches of thick skull.

"Now, I'm not saying the war was entirely your fault. Amerique never would have been happy under your control for much longer, that's just the sort of nation he was, and that's the sort of nation he is. There is nothing he hates more, Angleterre, than being protected by the very nation he wants to protect more than anyone or anything else. So, just for now, trust in him. He'll come back to you in his own time, just as he always has."

Satisfied, France turned back to listen to Germany flounder as he tried to regain control of the meeting or stop Russia from terrifying China. The snapping sound of ropes breaking and the loud crunch of wood shattering soon wiped away all happy thoughts.

And sure enough, there stood England, free of his restraints, and ready to ignore everything he had just said. A pity, too. He'd been preparing that speech for a good hundred years, waiting for just the right moment to say it.

Face red and eyes bright, England was ready for battle.

"Come on, Canada." England yelled. "We're going Yankee hunting!"

 

"Italy!"

There'd been a pulling sensation in America's navel seconds before his body had been tugged forward a million miles/second. A rumor existed amongst some of the nations that focus and concentration could help them transport themselves from one country to another, but it was dangerous. The toll it took on their bodies was a harsh one, and so it was rarely used. Many considered it a suicidal risk.

A little before the pulling sensation had occurred, Italy had been forced to stop running due the large expanse of water, known as the English Channel, blocking his path. America remembered a movie he'd seen somewhere where a blond kid had just run across the water, and wanted to tell Italy about it, but his mouth was dry and his tongue wouldn't cooperate. Stupid tongue. Disobeying a direct order. He'd charge it with insubordination if it were a soldier.

Italy was yelling, "Don't stop talking, America! Tell me about Canada? England? France? Japan? China? You owe him money, right? How much money do you owe him?"

America lolled in his arms. Although that had more to do with being depressed than sick, it still sent Italy into a panic.

"It's, uh, 17 trillion. That's a lot, right?" Racing up and down the channel, in search of a bridge as he spoke, the Italian still couldn't find anyway to get across the English Channel. At this rate, he'd grow too tired to move before he ever got America to Venice.

Fine. He'd just have to bet all of his strength on a prayer. Grim determination darkened the color of his irises from a sweet amber to a cool brown.

He exhaled and inhaled deeply, backed up 20 paces from the channel, closed his eyes, and then pictured his home in Venice.

It was an old home. He'd lived in it long before Austria had taken him in, and now that he'd won his independence from Austria, he lived in it once again. Unlike America, Italy had been a conquered nation, not a colony, but that didn't mean Austria hadn't felt betrayed when Italy used Prussia's weakening of him and an alliance with France to regain some of his lost land. It was in the third Italian War of Independence that Italy had gained back the land lost in the sea, his heart, his Venice.

Today, flowering vines grew on the outer walls of his clay house. It always smelled of Earth, baked Earth on sunny days, and wet Earth when it rained. The inside was sparsely decorated, almost Spartan, except for a basic kitchen, his bed, and a painting he hadn't seen in what felt like ages. Hanging above Italy's sink, painted in Van Gogh-esque strokes, was a picture of Germany, Italy, and Japan. To Italy, it had been a reminder that he wasn't alone.

He focused on that painting. He focused until he could remember the smell of the paints, feel the ridges and bumps on its surface, and then he leapt.

 

America awoke, his body in pain but his mind clear, to find Italy sprawled out beside him on an unfamiliar stone path.

"Italy?!"

Not bothering to knock, America burst into the tan clay house at the head of the stone path, threw Italy on the bed, and drew some water from the sink. In his panic, he almost missed the painting, but when he saw it, he realized where he was, and what Italy had done.

"Wake up!" When America poured a pitcher of ice water he'd found in the fridge over Italy's darkening hair, Italy still refused to wake. Not a muscle on him reacted. Scouring his mind, America tried to remember the side effects of nation jumping, but all that seemed to stand out was… someone's pinched and worried face when he was told never to do it. Canada had probably gotten the same lecture, but America was sure neither that person nor France had ever expected Canada to be the reckless daredevil.

Now Italy, the only one who still remembered what they had gone through together, was laid up in bed because of him.

His combat boots squelched in the thick soil beneath his feet as he paced.

The old, unvarnished cabinets carried nothing within except pasta. The Italian didn't need pasta, he needed smelling salts! As America continued to search, Italy entered a dream.

In his dream, he was surrounded by wild flowers, a gentle breeze blew from some far off pines. It all seemed so familiar to him. If he had to place it, he'd probably say it was a field in Austria he'd often frolicked in during his youth. But why would he be here?

One glance at his chest told him he was still wearing his blue military uniform. As God was his witness, he was going to burn his garments the second after he completed the air strike on that House. He didn't know what he was going to wear yet, but he'd seen his current clothes stained in blood far too many times to feel comfortable in them.

"Italia." A deep voice called out to him. Italy turned to see a young man in a blue cape, with an old-fashioned hat on his crown. His hair was sternly pulled back from his face, accentuating his angular and stern features. His blue eyes, however, were gentle and kind. Similar to Germany, they were as blue as the open sky.

He smiled kindly at Italy, but all Italy could find in himself to say was, "Who are you?".

The smile on the tall man's face faltered, then melted into a frown. He made a step to approach the brunette, but as Italy had no memory of ever meeting him before, the Italian stepped back, ready to flee if the need should arise.

Sensing Italy's intention of running, he stopped moving forward, instead, he looked carefully at Italy's face, hands clenched by his sides, his expression lost.

"I'm the Holy Roman Empire? You don't-" Emotion choked him for a moment. "You don't… remember me?" The last two words sounded so desperate and pleading to Italy's ears, he almost wished he could reassure the man before him. But he had never heard of the Holy Roman Empire.

Shaking his head slowly, Italy replied, "I'm sorry. I don't know any Holy Roman Empire."

The instant after he finished speaking, the field of flowers began to wither and blacken. Startled by the sudden change, Italy stepped back, hearing the sound of crunching dead leaves as he did so.

The man who called himself Holy Rome held his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen." He gestured to field, the pain etched on his face making him appear older than he had seconds before. "This world is like a dream. Normally, it would be your dream. Your choice to change it or leave it… or stay. But you don't remember me. Since that is the case, I must function as the sole anchor in this world. That means…" He paused, glancing with barely suppressed grief at the dying flowers. "This place is connected to my emotions."

If the world represented his emotional state, that would mean that not being remembered had devastated him, but Italy knew he did not have the will nor the time to make a sincere attempt to remember someone from his past. Besides, nothing good could come from it.

Still, Italy found himself staring at the dying world around him as though locked in a trance. There was something captivating, something beautiful, in the quick and sudden ending of so much life.

"I need to go back." Feliciano finally said. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears, but he couldn't imagine why. There was a pain in his chest, a tightening around his heart that seemed to increase when he met the eyes of the man standing before him.

"Before you wanted to stay."

"This isn't about what I want. It hasn't been about that for a very long time. This is about doing what's right. America needs me. As long as that's true, I will be by his side."

Unexpectedly, the man began to chuckle, and in the blink of an eye, the world was restored to its former beauty. Though Italy almost regretted the change, he was glad to see the man happy again, for some inconceivable reason.

Smiling, Holy Rome said, "Good for you, Italia. You have grown to be strong. I always knew you would."

A small smile tugged Italy's lips. The praise lifted his spirit, a little but not fully, from the depths to which it had sunk. "I'm not strong at all, Holy Roman Empire. I'm just Feliciano."

"Perhaps, but 'just Feliciano' is strong. May we meet again, Feliciano, and don't forget, America is not the only one who needs you by his side."

The wind howled again. Italy called out over the sound, but his voice wasn't loud or strong enough to carry over. Still, something reached him, like a long forgotten whisper.

"Ich liebe dich."


	3. America's Grandfather

The potent smell of tomato made its presence known as he began his swim to consciousness. He was already retching over the side of his bed, and all over America's sneakers, before he was even fully awake.

"Dude! You're awake! This is great. I was starting to get worried you weren't going to wake up again. Who knew the tomato would really wake you up?"

"You did." Italy gasped out, before another wave of nauseous forced him to try putting his head between his legs. He glared at the tomato in America's hands as he said, "Tomatoes have been making me sick since loop number fifty-five or so. You're the one who suggested we make burgers instead."

A greenish pallor colored America's face, then he replied, "Yeah, I remember. Only took me to loop number one hundred and twenty to get sick of burgers. Thought you all were about to have a stroke when I said I wasn't hungry."

After catching sight of a towel by the sink, America kicked some dirt over the bubbling bile, then gently passed it to Italy so he could wipe his mouth a little.

"We need to get some food in us, Italy. There's nothing besides fluid in your stomach. It's not good for you."

Italy accepted the towel with a grateful nod.

Suddenly serious, America set his jaw and asked, "What were you thinking, Italy? Nation hopping like that? You could have died. It's one thing for me to be reckless, I… uh…" Broad shoulders slumped. In the end, even though it was important that he did, he couldn't find a way to justify his own recklessness without simply insisting that he's the hero. Life wasn't that simple anymore. He couldn't just say big words and expect things to get better. How could he when he knew now that not everything did? When he knew now that not everything ever would?

Italy flashed his depressed companion a weak grin, then announced, "I'm taking off my clothes."

"...Whut?"

If Italy was trying to change the subject, he was really good at it.

Not bothering to wait for America to say anything more articulate, Italy began to unbuckle his belt. He didn't even bother to put it on the bed. He just threw it as far away from him as possible, sending it colliding into his cabinet.

"Aren't you tired of wearing these clothes?" Italy inquired, though his words became a little muffled when he began to pull his blue jacket over his head.

Day after day of seeing the same clothes would make anyone hate the garments enough to burn them, but Italy had seen his covered in blood, the blood of his friends. He'd never be able to look at them without seeing that blood.

America shrugged in response, than started to toss off his bomber jacket. The jacket had been very precious to him for a very long time. It had kept him in warm in Russia, but he could do with a few days break from its weight. It wasn't as though he could forget how many states he had… He had forty-nine, right?

Nope. The jacket said fifty. He'd have to ask Italy or Canada which state he'd forgotten.

Italy glanced at the jacket and frowned a little. How much had that jacket weighed? Carrying America to the English Channel had been like running with a sack of bricks.

Next up for the stripping, America's uniform. Sure, his people always seemed to be fighting, and when they fought, he fought with them, but for the first time in ages, he wanted to pretend like he wasn't at war. And, if he had to, he could always change back. Maybe even wear a Navy uniform. It'd be a nice change of pace. Of course, he'd always be a flyboy at heart.

Once the two had finished throwing their clothes around, they realized how nice the cool breeze wafting through the open windows felt on their backs. Red, white, and blue boxers clung to America's tall legs. The boxers Italy wore had no pattern or color. This gave him free license to snicker at America's juvenile taste, if only because he'd seen England do it so many times and wanted to try doing it himself.

America pouted, his bright blue eyes and young features reminding Italy of young Labrador puppies.

In time, Italy began looking through his antique blue cabinet, the one he kept clothes in, for something that would fit America, who was much taller and broader than Italy was.

Germany had left some clothes behind during his occupation, but Italy wasn't sure America would like them very much.

"Dude, this is a Nazi uniform. Wearing this is on that list of things I like to call: "Things I Will Do Over My Dead Body".

Italy sighed. "V- I mean, um, I don't know what else I have that will fit you, America."

America knelt beside Italy, deciding to help paw through the cramped clothes. He was a little surprised to see that Italy's wardrobe consisted mainly of military uniforms, but after a while, he found a suitably large white T-shirt, It wouldn't cover his midsection entirely, but that wasn't a huge issue, and, luckily, the sleeves were large enough not to strangle him under the armpits.

While looking for pants, he found a frilly green dress about Italy's size. Between the bonnet, and the ribbon, it was clear that the dress was a carbon copy of Hungary's.

America glanced at the furiously blushing Italy, as though to say, 'Should I be asking for your man card right now?'

Italy snarled something under his breath, then he snatched it away, saying, "We all have skeletons in our closets. Mine just happen to be crossdressers."

A short chuckle was all America could say in response to that. A pair of brown pants in the bottom drawer drew his attention, but they ripped the second America tried to tug them on.

This was, of course, completely unrelated to America's former diet. Austria's way too skinny to be considered a real man, anyway.

None of America's sound justifications did anything to impede Italy's giggle fit. He gave up trying to rather quickly, though. It'd been a really long time since he'd heard Italy laugh with such abandon.

In mock annoyance, America tossed the ripped pants at the still shirtless Italy, who was now practically rolling on the floor, clutching his sides as though he might just split in two.

A boisterous laugh, full and deep, rang out. The walls absorbed it well, but they knew, and that was all that mattered.

It felt good to laugh again.

Finally, Italy found a sleeveless black shirt and some old, ripped jeans for himself. America wore the one-size-too-small T-shirt, and some sweat pants they'd managed to scrounge up. Despite the pants looking uncomfortably small, America still refused to wear anything Germany had worn during the war.

Italy had reminded America that it was he who had insisted upon Germany's innocence during the Nuremberg Trials, but all America could say was, "Can't blame a man for wearing a uniform he doesn't fully understand, but that can't be said for me. I understand it, I fought it, and I sure as hell can't wear it. Not even just the pants."

With a resigned nod, Italy let the matter drop.

Overall, Italy looked fashionably casual, while America looked like someone had thrown him in the dryer by accident.

His blond hair, still damp from his last fit of fever, sprawled messily over his head, though he didn't seem to mind it too much.

There wasn't much else that could be done in the dirt house, besides clean up a little. They threw all their old clothes onto Italy's bed, after Italy insisted, "This is a small neighborhood with good people. No one will take our things." The resulting pile was a tangled heap of ties, dress shirts, and uniforms.

The bomber jacket could be seen poking out of the pile, as well. Italy dug it out and tried to give it back to America, saying with the slightest note of sheepishness, "I know what I said about my people, but you should keep this with you just in case. It's important to you, right?"

America just shrugged and said he'd be fine, so Italy pulled on the jacket himself. It was so large on him, it made him look small and fragile, like a child. The heat outside would warm up that jacket in seconds. America tried to take it back, but there was a stubborn glint in Italy's dark amber eyes, when he said, "Let me bare it for a while. You have two weeks to rest here before you'll have to wear such a heavy, really heavy, jacket again, but I don't want you to lose it either. If everything works out, you and I will be landing an airstrike soon. Unless…" A look of concern passed over his features. "Are you feeling up to it, America?"

The blond plastered a huge grin on his wan face as he marched the little Italian out of his house. In an instant, his breath was stolen by the beauty he hadn't noticed when he'd been caring for his friend. Children played ball in the streets, men smoked on handmade wooden patios, just in from a long day out in the vineyards. Their eyes shone, bright under dark brows, and their skin seemed as tough as leather. Crinkles around the eyes and mouth suggested many years of smiling and laughter had already been their gift, and their children -or was it grandchildren?- were undoubtedly going to be giving them many more.

He felt a little lost for a moment. The flowers, pinks and blues, large and small, combined with all the colors of the dying sun, and the laughter of the children as they played, oblivious to his presence, sent an ache into his heart.

Sometimes, he wondered if he would have been happier had he been born a human.

A glance stolen at Italy showed him a face that must have mirrored his own. Italy took a deep breath, then smiled and waved at all the people below. The two of them ran down the path as the adults waved back, apparently used to seeing Italy playing and laughing with the kids.

One of the older Italians on the porch, sitting in a white rocking chair, noted that Italy's jacket was an American flight jacket, commonly used during WWI and WWII. He seemed to suspect that Feliciano had gotten it from his American friend, but joked, "Hey, Veneziano, you wouldn't be planning on joining the American forces now, would you?" Most of the men had known their little Veneziano for many years, this inevitably meant that most of them laughed uproariously at the notion.

Italy grinned at the men, then hunched over a little so the girl trying to clamber onto his back could get a better grip. He hoisted her up the rest of the way, then he heard America say, "The jacket's mine. I'm an American soldier. My name is Alfred F. Jones." In perfect Italian.

The old man, his name was Paulo, watched the young American swing his grandsons back and forth on his arms. The boy couldn't be more than nineteen. He threw Feliciano a questioning glance, but the brunette in the G-1 flight jacket was obviously pretending to be oblivious at the moment. There was no doubt in Paulo's mind that Feliciano really was an airhead, he just didn't believe for a second that Feliciano was as much as an airhead as he seemed to want others to think he was.

"Alfred F. Jones, I was a member of the Italian Resistance during WWII. I remember how much the Americans did to help us. I also remember how much the Americans loved Bourbon."

A deep-throated laugh shook the boys clinging to America's arms. "We Americans still love Bourbon, Sir."

The man winked at America, then said, "There was this soldier I met, all those years ago. He was a loud and boastful braggart, but he had a good heart. Saved my life once. His name was Alfred, Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones. He had blue eyes, like the sky, same as you. Always talked about being a hero, and I believed him. From the moment I met him, he has been one of my favorite heroes, a beacon of hope when all seemed lost."

The other men looked at Paulo as though they had never heard him speak of the American soldier before.

"My grandfather passed away last year." America said, as he put the two boys back on the ground. Sensing it was about time to leave, Feliciano murmured to the little girl that he would see her again soon.

"You'll come play again, like you always do, right Feli?" Her lip seemed to quiver a little as she spoke, her small fist digging into her little sun dress.

He ruffled her loose brown hair and laughed, "Of course!"

He watched her dart inside, a smile on her face, as America answered Paulo's unspoken question.

"It sure is a small world, isn't it? My grandfather is the first Alfred F. Jones in my family. I was named after him, in honor of a hero, but… he passed away last year. I'm sorry."

Leaves rustled in the distance as the night wind began to whisper. It wouldn't be long before it was dark out.

"My grandfather told me once about a brave boy he'd met in Italy. Said he stole food and weapon supplies for the Resistance from Nazi camps. Was that you?"

Eyes suddenly moist, the old man answered, his voice hushed "Yes, that was me."

"My grandfather said you were a hero." America walked up to the stairs so he could better see the man. "Said you were twelve years old, skinny as a bean pole, and one of the bravest men he'd ever met."

The old man threw his hands up and laughed, startling all the men sitting beside him, who had been enraptured by the two's conversation.

"Of course, he'd give me all the credit." The old man boomed, wiping a tear away from his eye. "You see, Alfred, I wasn't supposed to be sneaking supplies. I was young, foolish, but I wanted to fight. So I snuck out when everyone was sleeping, thought I'd gotten away, then this six foot American soldier appeared out of nowhere, and said, 'Nice night for a stroll, don't cha think?'

The man roared with laughter at the memory. Even America joined in, laughing at the crazy antics of a grandfather who was obviously him. Italy sat on the porch as he waited for the man to finish his story. A low growl rumbled in his stomach, but the smell of pasta wafting through the windows helped him forget his hunger as he just concentrated on not retching.

Paolo continued, his lit cigar casting sharp shadows over the contours of his wizened face, "That soldier never shut up for a second. I thought he was going to get us caught! But once we got close enough to the camp, he stopped talking entirely. Well, as it turns out, an American's prattle is an excellent distraction. It kept me from feeling nervous or scared the entire way, which was likely his intention."

"You're giving him too much credit." The two nations muttered.

Paulo looked at the two and laughed some more. Some of the men went inside to help set the tables and get the kids ready.

"Yes, well, you'd think that, and yet, I sometimes feel I don't give him nearly enough. Once the Nazi's caught wind of me, he told me to run, then he took a piece of meat and started, not towards the Resistance, but towards the middle of nowhere, howling like a mad man. I've always wondered what sort of man would use himself as a distraction. It feels good to know, after all these years, that he made it out all right."

America thought of the grandchildren, the little girl Italy had played with, and the two boys, unbridled and rambunctious. He thought of the men who still watched Paulo with a mix of concern and wonder. They were probably his sons, and his son-in-laws. If he could go back, he would save the boy again. He would save the boy a hundred times over, not because he was a hero, but because he couldn't call himself America if he didn't. He wouldn't be America if he didn't.

The man dug out from his shirt pocket what looked like a piece of paper, and then threw it to America. Opening up his closed palms, America was shocked to see a one hundred dollar bill.

Disbelievingly, he looked up at the man, who only winked. "You and Feliciano can drink at the ol' bar by the corner. It'll be on me tonight, boys." All men still on the porch promptly set to grumbling good-naturedly at how unfair the world must be if their father would give acquaintances money to go drinking, but not them.

"Quit your bellyaching. When your grandfather saves my life, I'll pay for you to go drinking too." For most of the men, that would require the dead rising from their graves. A night out drinking just wasn't worth it.

America bowed slightly to indicate his gratefulness. There wasn't much else he could say, so he just waved good-bye, and promised to visit them all again before he returned to the States.

As they walked away, the stars over their heads shining, America wrapped his arm around Italy's shoulders and said, "Show me where the bar is Italy! We're celebrating our freedom today!"


	4. Lost In A Bar

One hour later, Italy was quizzing America on U.S History.

"What happened in 1776?"

"No idea."

The bartender, a young, dark haired woman in her early 20's, wondered incredulously how an American could not know about the Revolutionary War. She was Italian, born and bred, and even she knew about it.

"What happened in 1814?"

"Canada kicked my butt."

"Well… You're not wrong. What happened in 1492?"

"Spain found me and South America. I didn't really get a lot of attention back then, but my sister kind of hates his guts. Like, she'd probably try to cut out his heart and eat it if we put her in a room with him and locked the door."

"Wha, really?!" Apparently, Italy needed to brush up on American History, he'd thought Christopher Columbus was English, not Spanish.

"Yep."

"Ok then, who colonized you in the 1600's?" Maybe he'd get the answer he was looking for now.

"I don't know, Feliciano." The stress of not remembering his own past correctly was starting to get to him. "France colonized me. Spain colonized me. Lots of nations wanted a piece of the New World. And who could blame 'em?" America tried out a wink. "I was a real catch back then."

A couple people at the bar placed bets were listening to their conversation. Some of them thought the two were delusional, others thought they were history nerds or role players. That sort of thing was popular in America, wasn't it?

Blowing air into his beer for no particular reason, besides stalling for time, Italy finally said, "I think most of your memories are fine, Alfred. It's just that anything relating to Arthur has been erased or blocked for some reason."

"Has this happened to you?"

Italy began to shake his head, then he remembered the man in his dream, the one who looked like Germany.

"Probably. But I can't remember if the person I've forgotten was a nation or a human. At least you remember meeting England."

"I remember he cared a lot about me and Mattie. Plus, he died and went blind and was mauled multiple times, all on my watch."

"Yeah, trying to save England was like trying to catch water with a strainer, and then he came up with that stupid scheme to save us after Matthew died… again." Another failure. That's what that loop had been.

Had they really saved their friends? Italy could barely look at Japan and Germany without thinking that… that they weren't his. They belonged to some other Italy who had once existed, but who didn't anymore. Maybe to the Italy who had died in the second loop. It wasn't fair. They were finally out. They could laugh and smile again, but the people who had once made him feel so safe, now he wondered if he could truly and honestly smile in front of them.

Soldiers often lost friends and loved ones in their wars. But they only ever lost their friends once, and then time moved forward. For America and Italy, time had stood still. It had gone forward and backward, tearing into a wound that had never gotten a chance to heal.

The two nations who sat drinking in that bar needed to get over losing their loved ones over a hundred times, but America was strong. And Italy? He was stronger than many gave him credit for. Though, he may not have looked so after his third glass of beer, and second glass of bourbon. He didn't even like the stuff, but the alcohol was making it harder to him to think, to remember, and for that, he'd drink American liquor all night if he had to.

"I don't bloody know what the problem is." America slurred, looking down at Italy, who had laid his head on the bar counter, fully intending to sleep there. "I mean, so I forgot one guy. I'm the bloody United States of America-" The cup of beer he was waving around emphatically spilled over onto Italy's head. America sent him an apologetic grin, but Italy was too tired to complain too much. When was the last time he'd actually had a full night's sleep? Come to think of it, he and America still hadn't eaten anything. Whose bright idea was it to go out drinking when they had a house to bomb.

No, wait… this was Paulo's fault. He'd gone all senile on them, rambled on about the war, and then he'd given Alfred money to go buy drinks in honor of Alfred's passing. That… was exactly what had happened.

And now Alfred was talking in an English accent. Did Americans always do that when they went drinking? Come to think of it, he'd never seen America drunk before. Guess he knew why.

A hard slap on the back almost sent Italy sprawling across the counter. Several patrons in the bar sent him sympathetic glances.

'I don't need your pity' Italy thought at them, but anymore of this and he was going to need their doctor. Alcohol was supposed to be a depressant, right? So, like a sedative, then? What exactly would it take to sedate Alfred, a tranq-gun? For elephants?!

The bartender refilled Italy's drink, then he took a great, big, frothy gulp from it in the hopes that he would pass out soon.

"Hey, Italy!" Alfred laughed. "Want to hear an Italian joke? I know a few of them."

Just as Italy was about to tell Alfred, for the fifth time, that a bar in Venice was not a good place for Italian jokes, that he would listen to them later, and that, no, not everyone loved a good Italian joke, the doors burst open. In walked four decidedly non-Italian people, and Romano.

"Veneziano!" Romano screeched, because speaking at normal volumes was for people who didn't have anger management problems and inferiority complexes. "What the $%# do you think you're doing here?"

Italy lifted his drink, then flatly replied, "I'm drinking, Romano. Perhaps you thought I was tap-dancing?"

"What the bloody 'ell are you all doing 'ere?" America asked, the picture of alcohol induced bliss.

England sputtered, as the female bartender began taking bets on how long the intervention would last before somebody broke down. Somebody bet $10 on the off chance all of them gave up and ordered drinks.

"Amerique, you are speaking a little strange, non?"

Italy looked at his brother, the accusation that he had sold him out to the devil clear in his eyes. "You brought France to Italy, Romano?"

Romano flinched. "I didn't have a choice! The potato bastard said you were acting weird, and I couldn't just leave you alone with these clowns." The four blonds in his entourage bristled a little at his endearing nickname for their group. However, Italy totally understood Romano's point, and his fear of France, so he nodded his understanding. Then he turned back to the counter and took another sip of beer.

"Hey Mattie." America said.

"Canada." Italy corrected.

"Right. I meant to say that. Um, hello, Francis?"

"France."

"And Arthur?"

Finally, Italy snapped. "What the $%^$ do you think, Alfred? How many times do I have to say, 'They don't know their human names?' In case you're wondering, the last one is Germany. You would have called him, Ludwig. Why? Because you don't listen! I tell you something, and then you ignore it. Do you have any idea how frustrating you are? I don't know how England has put up with you all these years, but I'm starting to think he's some sort of saint."

Alfred blinked dumbly, then said, "Did you just say something, Italy?"

Every glass on the counter shook from the force of Italy's multiple face slams.

Germany grabbed Italy around the shoulders, fearing for what little brain cells the Italian had left. Romano yelled at Ludwig for touching his brother, and Germany yelled at England, who was still too stuck on the fact that America had forgotten him and been speaking in an English accent to react. The Frenchman ignored all of them, and ordered a drink from the bar. Preferably, a strong one.

It wasn't long before the bartender threw them all outside, and someone else left that bar $20 dollars richer.

Once they were outside, Italy and America both seemed to sober up a little. They glanced up and down the empty road.

Italy shrugged. "Guess you all can stay at my place."

"Feliciano" Romano bristled at America's informal way of addressing his younger brother. "Your house consists of one room and a dirt floor."

"Got a better idea, America?"

Germany watched America submit to Italy with a mix of fascination and horror. Veneziano was wearing his shirt, and America's jacket, but his attitude was completely new. Worst of all, Germany wasn't sure this new Italy even liked him. He seemed to avoid even acknowledging his presence, unless he was yelling at America.

Speaking of America, the boy was obviously too drunk to stand. Almost everyone present moved to help him when he stumbled, but Italy beat them all to it. Again.

He wrapped America's arm around his neck, and allowed the American to rest most of his weight on him. Since when was Italy so strong?

Not even the British Empire could understand what had changed the two.

"Your breath smells like beer." Italy noted.

America laughed, a hollow sound. "Hello, pot. I'm kettle." The little Italian snorted. The stars above them still shone as brightly as they had hours before. Between them and the lamplights, still dripping from what must have been a light shower, there was no way they could lose their way home.

"Do you remember something involving tea?" America asked, bemused.

"Boston Tea Party. I'm sure England can fill you in tomorrow."

"Well, yeah, but I don't get along with him or I'm not supposed to get along with him or I don't know how to. One of those three is true, I'm just not sure which."

"Things were awkward with Austria after I gained my independence, since of sort of stabbed him in the back and everything, but he got over it… France thinks you two can't stay in one room together because you love each other."

That damn frog, England thought. I should have killed him in the Seven Years War.

America lurched up, almost throwing Italy off balance. "Ew. Isn't England, the dude who is totally walking right behind us, by the way, my brother or my father or my mother country or something else like that?"

Italy shrugged, or tried to. "You're not a human, Alfred. Stuff like gender doesn't matter to us."

"Sure about that? I don't see you shacking up with Romano." Behind them, Romano let loose a long string of curses. Then he kicked Germany for no good reason.

The smile that lit up Veneziano's face, however, was positively Russia worthy. "I can and will drop you, America." The streetlights lighting up the cobbled stone road helped to make his childlike face more intimidating.

"R-right." America responded, in a totally not scared way. He shifted a little to the left, as he added. "Duly noted."

And so the two stumbled their way down the road, either oblivious or indifferent to the four bodies behind them. France had stayed behind to chat up the female bartender. Don't worry, though. A very burly man'll throw him out in a few minutes. That's what you get when you try to molest the bar owner's beautiful daughter.

Canada tried to comfort England by assuring him that America would remember him eventually, but England pushed him away.

Germany walked on, ignoring their little family drama, with his shoulders slumped. There had once been a time when he would have jumped for joy at this new Italy, but that was when he'd needed a powerful ally. Over the years, he'd grown used to Italy's cheerful smile, his bubbly personality, and that curl that he apparently wasn't supposed to touch without permission, under penalty of a slow death by tomato. He wasn't sure how tomatoes could kill him, but if it was Romano, he'd probably find a way to make it work. And it would be unpleasant.

So, he had promised. But now the point was rendered moot because Italy himself didn't want to be touched by him. Only America seemed to be allowed to touch him, speak to him… Italy had seemed really protective of America earlier, even going so far as to threaten Russia. Now, they were going back to Italy's house. The thoughts came slowly to Germany, but he eventually came to the conclusion that Italy had a bed in his house. Italy had America in his house. Therefore, America had slept in Italy's house… with Italy… present.

Romano threw his arms up, and shouted, "Did you sleep with America before we got here? I haven't been trying to split you up from the potato bastardo so you can sleep with the burger one."

'He's been trying to split us up?' thought Germany, puzzled.

In response, Italy threw a glare over his shoulder, the words he shot back at Romano, full of the venom he'd been storing. "Shut your mouth, Romano. I don't need you telling me who I can and can't hang out with. Just to set the record straight, no, I'm not sleeping with America, but even if I was, I wouldn't tell you. Because it's none of your damn business."

Never in Romano's life had his younger brother ever spoken to him like that. Not even Spain spoke to him like that.

"Ah, Feliciano, that wasn't very nice." America swayed, almost knocking them over. If the American didn't lower his voice soon, he was going to wake up half of Venice, and the people of Venice were not very forgiving when it came to their sleep. "Since when have you had so little patience?"

"What about you, when did you decide to stop announcing you were a hero every five seconds? Which loop did that happen in?" Indistinctly, he remembered America's proclamations of heroism growing fewer, but he didn't think he'd ever stopped completely. That may have just been America's way of trying to keep up morale though.

"'M not a hero."

Neither England nor Canada could believe their ears.

Silence stretched out in the darkly lit street until Italy broke it again.

"Listen, America, I know I'm a coward, I'm weak and I whine, that's exactly why I've always admired heroes like you and Germany."

"'M not-"

"Let me finish. To me, a hero was someone strong, and brave, and straightforward. Being like you, I didn't think it would be so bad… but I was wrong. Heroes aren't strong. They're selfless, and they're selfish. I'm not a hero. If I saw an enemy, I wouldn't shout a challenge and then fight it head on."

"Yeah, you'd cower behind the potato bastard." The muttered sentence had a distinct Italian accent to it.

"At least he's not a tomato bastard." Italy replied smoothly to his brother, who squawked in protest. Germany had to exercise his arm muscles by restraining yet another outraged nation that night. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. I wouldn't fight my enemy head on. I'd poison their wells and their food, I'd take their families' hostage, I'd stab them while their back was turned, and, chances are good, the blade I used would be poisoned. My men are trained to shoot and run, because they value their lives, America, and they don't want to leave their families behind to fend for themselves. They don't want tears to be shed for them. They just want to go home. In your country, sacrifice is seen as something to be glorified. In mine, it is a last resort that leaves widows and orphans in its wake. I hate heroes, America. They always leave me crying, and I don't want to cry anymore."

Germany stared at Italy's back in disbelief. This Italy sounded nothing like the Italy he thought he had come to know. This one sounded world weary, as nations tended to sound after a war. The only time Italy had ever come close to being this defeated was when Germany's boss ordered the deaths of five thousand Italian POW's during WWII. That was also the only time he'd ever seen Italy angry.

_Germany! I had a scary dream that I betrayed you and you hated me…_

But Italy had never betrayed him. He'd just stopped fighting. And now, that same Italy that always snuck into his bed, sobbed into his shirt, and clung to him for comfort, was talking to America. It wasn't so much the fact that Italy was wearing America's jacket that bothered him, or the fact that America was wearing Italy's shirt. The only thing that bothered him was that he had wished for Italy to changed, and now that he had, the only thing Germany could wish for was for Italy to change back.

If he were Italy, he'd be crying. The second he thought it, he felt his breath hitch. Italy seemed to twitch a little, as though he'd actually heard him, as though he knew just how close his friend had been to breaking down in the middle of the street and crying.

The shoulders of the green-eyed man beside Germany were hunched, since he wasn't even trying to look strong anymore. As far as he was concerned, his former charge had attempted to drink himself into oblivion, and it was all his fault. If he had only listened to Italy when the boy had tried to warn him, America wouldn't be in the haggard state he was in now. Whatever those two had remembered, it was changing their physical appearance. Italy kept his eyes open, so it was plain to see that they were no longer light like honey, they were dark, full, deep, rich, and swirling, like the coffee America liked to drink. His hair was also darker. And as for his height, well, he'd always been taller than England, but had he always been taller than Romano?

They were almost to the hill where Italy's house rested, when an older man, late 70's at the oldest, waved at them from his porch. There was a lit cigar in one of his tanned hands, and a glass of wine in the other.

"Paulo?" Romano called, sounding happy to the see the gray haired man.

The man, called Paulo, stood up, and said, "Romano, good to see you. It's been a while." He gestured to Germany, Canada (still here!), and England. "Are these your friends?"

Once again, Romano swore like a sailor, but the man only chuckled, apparently used to Romano using trash talk as his default method of communication. "So, they are your friends? I'm so proud of you, Romano."

"Have you been listening to a word I just sai-" Just as he seemed about ready to start on another rant, he demurred. "…Yeah, whatever." Was that red England saw in his cheeks? By George, the boy was blushing. Who was this man?

Paulo gave Italy a stern look, then said, "I see you let your friend drink a little too much, Veneziano." America groaned, head lolling to the side, as though just to prove Paulo's point. Italy poked his head out from under America's arm and said, "I've never gone drinking with Alfred before, and I had no idea he couldn't handle four beers and three bourbons."

Paulo frowned, then with a shrug, he said, "He drank that much, did he? You two haven't been gone that long." Looking Italy dead in the eye, he asked, "Has something happened, Veneziano? You seemed a little subdued this afternoon, and now, you have not bothered to introduce your friends." The man seemed determined to wait for an answer regardless of how long it took, he had that stubborn glint in his eye.

With a frustrated sigh, the Italian boy in the American jacket handed his burden over to Canada, who looked at his brother's unconscious face with a warm fondness he was usually too annoyed to show. He thanked Italy, then he made his way with England to Italy's clay house. Romano and Germany lingered behind, but Italy told them to go on ahead, he'd catch up.

Once they were gone, Italy climbed up onto Paulo's porch and sat in the white rocking chair beside him.

A drink was offered to him, but he declined, sure he was already asking for a hangover.

"Veneziano," Paulo said, as he gazed up at the stars. " I have never seen your face as sad as I've seen it today, and I have seen you weep. Now, we have been neighbors, friends, for a very long time, and I will support you in whatever you do, but, please remember, friends are precious. They may come and go in our lives, but they are also part of what makes life worth living… Your German friend could use a hug."

At the last sentence, Italy nearly choked on the air in his mouth. Sputtering, he asked, "What makes you say that?"

There was a twinkle in Paulo's hazel eyes when he answered, "He stares at you like he is lost, but who is truly lost? What have you forgotten, Veneziano?"

There was a movie Italy had seen once with America and Prussia. He'd hated it. The Joker, a scary man with bad make-up, had scared the heck out of him, but it wasn't the Joker Italy remembered as he sat on that bench. It was Two-Face. He'd said, 'You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain'. In his case, it was probably more true that he either died a coward or lived long enough to see himself become a monster. Neither option appealed to him.

Italy hesitated for a moment, before finding his resolve.

"It's not that I've forgotten something. " He started, choosing his words carefully. "I've never thought of myself as a hero, Paulo. Even in the direst situations, I have always been a coward, always expecting someone to protect me, to take care of me."

"And?" Paulo prompted.

"And I'm tired. I've been protected for so long, the idea of being protected again makes me sick to my stomach. Today, I'm finally safe again, and everyone I care about is back to their usual selves, but I look at their happy faces, their ignorant bliss, and I feel annoyed. Their faces, their voices, their words, they all annoy me. For so long, I've felt like an actor reciting lines, strutting my hour upon my stage, and now, I actually have to come up with my own lines, but all of them are rubbish. They're angry and mean."

"So, then, you've forgotten how to be the you they expect you to be. Perhaps, your friends should learn to change their expectations."

Italy turned to him in surprise.

"It is your turn to listen to me, my friend, we all change as we grow. Staying the same is an impossible task. Deep down, you are no different from the Italy I said, 'Good morning' to yesterday. From now on, you may have to play with my grandchildren more, maybe come over to eat, but you will get back what you have lost."

"And what's that?" The old man smiled in a grandfatherly way at the boy who had once been like a brother to him, then a son, and now, a grandson. The boy he had once risked his life to protect.

"Hope."


	5. Forgotten Friends

Laying on the grass was the very large outline of the young nation, America. Italy nearly had a heart attack when he noticed him. A closer look revealed that Canada had given America his glasses back.

"Too crowded inside?" Italy asked, as he sidled up beside America.

"Too sad." America replied. It was obvious to the two that the nations were sad because of them, neither felt the need to say it out loud. "Do you think I'm ever going to remember England? All the stuff he did, like taking care of me, and burning down my capital."

Italy snorted a little into the dirt.

"You sure you want to remember that stuff, America?"

"Any memories that aren't of my brother or England dying are welcome in my book. I could use more of those, actually."

Italy nodded his assent. "Those memories from the House do tend to take up a lot of space, don't they? After we blow it to Kingdom Come, maybe England can help you make some new, better memories. I doubt he has enough magic to make another barrier-"

"He's not doing any magic on, by, or near me." America heard the words, and knew that England would never listen to him. The frustrating little Brit would always use magic, no matter what America did or said about it. Trying to control him would go against everything America thought he stood for.

"Still mad at him for dying, huh?"

"I'm pissed to the nth degree. Aren't you?"

Italy sucked in some air, held his breath for a few moments, then answered, "Absolutely."

The two of them laughed for a time, then settled down. Just as Italy noticed a flash of discomfort cross his companions' face, America whispered, "Feliciano, do you think…" He stopped to clear his throat. "He's the same England?"

"He's exactly the same, America."

"Then, Italy, could you-" America cut himself off, then rolled away from Italy with a huff.

Italy poked him in the back, repeatedly, raised the pitch of his voice back to its former irritating glory, and whined, "Hey, America~ Tell me what you were going to say."

"No. It's embarrassing."

"The. Poking. Will. Not. Stop. Until. You-"

"ALRIGHT!" Letting his arm drop, Italy allowed himself a small grin. The American fidgeted for a while, before blurting out, "Can you pretend to be England?"

Well… that was unexpected.

Although he wasn't able to see Italy's face very clearly in the dark, he could sense that his little buddy was gob smacked, and America's cheeks burned in the night. This was it. Italy was going to think he was weird. He was going to get up and leave him-

"Well, what are ya waiting for, ya bloody Yank?" The American's jaw dropped, staying open until a bug tried to fly in it. The voice coming from the body beside America was distinctly Italian, and yet, it was trying so hard to be British. Giggles racked his entire body. Not sure what to make of the suddenly spazzing American, and not wanting to interrupt, Italy just waited for him to speak.

"Right, England…Um, you sound different?"

"What an astute observation, America." replied Italy, doing his best to sound pompous. "And by 'astute', I, of course, mean obvious."

"So, you're acknowledging that you suddenly sound Italian."

Italy plastered his best England scowl on his face. Upon seeing it, America had to do his best to stifle his sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

"Are you trying to suggest that I sound like one of those lily-livered, pasta eating, cowardly wankers? Surely, I have not insulted you so severely, in recent memory, as to warrant such a comparison."

This just set America off again. "You sound just like him."

Italy smiled at the compliment, though he quickly changed it back into an impatient scowl."Yes, yes, just shut yer gob and say what ya wanted to, ya git. I do not have time to sit around, listening to you ramble, when I have sooo much tea to drink."

America, wiping tears from his eyes, made his face look apologetic, "Sorry, Iggy, didn't meant to waste your time. It's just that I wanted to ask you for a favor."

"A favor? What on Earth could you want this time, America? If it's money for McDonalds, the answer to that has been, and shall always be: No." There was a moment of silence where both nations thought the exact same thing: Italy was scary good at impersonating England.

Except for the accent.

The accent was horrible.

It sounded like someone choking on marbles.

"Right, then, please stop protecting me." Italy punched America in the arm.

"I'm not protecting you, ya git. I'm just behaving as a gentleman should, and you just happen to be in my general vicinity while I-"

"Then stop. Please, I'm begging you. I don't think I can survive losing you or Canada again."

"And you think we'd be just jolly without you?!" The words required a yell, but, not wanting to risk waking England, Italy settled for a harsh whisper, bordering on a hiss.

"Yes." Blue eyes, shining even in the night, seemed to be on the verge of tears. "I don't want a hero, Iggy. I don't need one, and I'm not strong enough to be one. It was stupid. I was stupid. I thought I could protect everyone, thought I was invincible, but I was just a fool. Being protected by you, by Canada, it's not something I deserve."

Just then, the door to Italy's house burst off its hinges. Standing in the doorway, his hair a tousled mess, was England.

"JUST WHAT BLOODY NONSENSE DO YOU THINK YER SPOUTING YA BLOODY AMERICAN?" Panting heavily, England began to stalk over to them, his stomps crushing the grass with every step. After shooting each other a panicked glance, the two scrambled to their feet. Italy was quite willing to call it quits for the day and run, but America grabbed his collar.

"Oh, no, you're not leaving me alone with him."

Italy hissed, "He's not my problem anymore. Whatever he's mad at, it's your problem, not mine."

"He's probably mad at your horrid accent."

"You asked me to be England!"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't ask you to murder his accent!"

"You're just jealous because my English accent sounds more authentic than-"

"Than mine? Are you kidding me? I was English for two hundred years…"

England, who had been gradually reddening in the face as he prepared to explode, deflated in an instant. He'd thought about what he'd do if America really didn't remember him, and most of his well thought out plans consisted of yelling. Honestly, he hadn't planned much further ahead than yelling at America until he remembered him. That was all that mattered, and all that could happen. He didn't want to face a future where America regarded him as a stranger.

The blood drained from America's face when he realized that the reason England seemed so relieved was because he thought he'd been remembered.

Noticing America's horror, Italy stepped forward, and did the only thing he could think of. He bowed his head, just as Japan had shown him to, and apologized to the distraught Englishman. "I'm sorry." England stared, eyes wide with shock, at America, but the American seemed just as surprised. "I thought I could save everyone, but I was wrong, and you ended up saving me. Before we were sent back, you made me promise I'd take care of him, but all I've done is cause you pain. The barrier wasn't your fault. I mean, I'm cowardly Italy, right? I should have known you wouldn't have listened to me. I guess I just thought… I guess I just forgot that you spend 98% of your time as the planet's biggest dick and- Ow!"

With a muttered, "So close" America cuffed Italy on the back of his head, and added, "At this rate, you're going to be head runner for the other 2% of the time. Overexposure to England, much?"

"Could be worse. I could have been his colony for two hundred years."

 

It took a while, but England, America, and Italy eventually stopped fighting. To say the fight ended peacefully would be completely and utterly wrong, though. It may have seemed like a commonplace fight for a while, with curse words and petty insults being thrown about like confetti, but England took it one step too far.

"I was wrong to worry about you," shouted England. "Whatever trouble you and Italy have gotten yourselves into, it was probably your fault to begin with!"

Stumbling back with a crushed look on his face, America found that he could no longer make a sound. All the words died his throat, replaced by the suffocating fear he'd been trying so hard to forget. England reached out, an apology on his lips, but Italy shut his mouth with an uppercut to the jaw. The blow sent the Englishman sprawling, a crumpled heap on the ground.

Breathing hard, Italy gritted out, "Why did you come here, England? So you could berate America? Did you come here so you could insult me while you sleep under my roof?!" Blood dripped from the downed country's lips as he glared up at his attacker.

"Who do you think you're talking to, Italy?"

Italy leaned down, matching his height to England's, and snarled, "You forget your place, Great British Empire. I am North Italy, brother to Romano Italy, and grandson to the Ancient Empire of Rome. I hold no fear within me for you. Not anymore."

 

Behind the clay doorway, stood Romano. His hands clenched by his sides as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. His brother wasn't supposed to be brave, he was supposed to be cowardly.

The blue uniform Germany had found crumpled on the bed was now resting in the potato bastardo's lap. Romano had never liked the German idiot Italy had seemed to like so much. It was tough hearing his little brother praise him like the sun shone out of his ass when he had nothing good to say about his older brother, but, over time, Romano had come to accept that Veneziano was simply going to ignore him no matter what he said. Now, Italy seemed to have dumped the German, but he still wasn't paying attention to him. Instead, he was taking care of America. What was it with his brother and blue-eyed blonds?

 

England stormed back into the house, his lip bloody. Seeing Canada, he snapped, "We're going home in the morning." Then he flopped on the ground and tried to go to sleep. There would be another fight in the morning, since despite his pacifist nature, Canada did not take orders, but for now, things were quiet.

Outside, Italy handed America back his jacket. "You don't look like you without it." He'd said simply. It was a little more than that. Not much, just a little. For some reason even Italy couldn't explain, he wanted to comfort the taller country. Plus it was getting cold out. America's short T-shirt was too thin for a night out in Venice, as beautiful as the old fashioned buildings and cloudless night were, they were not worth getting sick over.

When Italy was sure America was asleep, he turned away from the younger nation, who had been squeezing him like a pillow, and tried to wiggle out of his arms. Upon succeeding, he turned his head to look up at the stars. It was so hard to imagine that he was free, and yet, the stars were undeniable proof of that. Like diamonds in a well of ink, they twinkled down at him, reminding him of the beauty he had forgotten.

Around Italy's waste, the gun he had pilfered borrowed from America felt heavy, strapped as it was around his torso. While it was unlikely that he'd ever need it, having it was a comfort. Still, he didn't think he could slee-

A round-faced, smiling Italian man in a toga invaded his line of sight, "Hello, my sweet Italy, how are you-"

The man stopped talking once he felt the gun pressed up against his chest. Angry at being interrupted when all he wanted was to look at the stars, Italy demanded that the silly man in the toga identify himself.

"Why, my sweet Italy, what has hanging out with that German done to you? Itsa me, Grandpa Rome."

"Germany has nothing to do with this." Italy snapped, as he climbed to his feet. The world seemed to be spinning a little to fast for him, and his head felt like it was having its own little civil war. Apparently, he'd had too much to drink. This really should not have come to a surprise to him. "Grandpa Rome is dead. He died centuries ago."

"Yessa, but it's me. Oh! Is little Romano in-"

The man moved to enter the house, but Italy screamed, "DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY FRATELLO!"

The shock in the man's eyes was evident, but it quickly transformed in to a sort of conglomeration of disbelief, confusion, and sadness. "You really don't remember me, Italy? I'm your Grandpa. I raised you when you were still very young, I used to tell you stories. Do you truly not remember me?"

This reaction again. Could he have forgotten more than one person? If he'd forgotten two, and America had only forgotten one, well that wasn't fair, now was it? He'd have to write a letter of complaint to the monsters, maybe tie it to the missile he planned to drop on their heads.

Romano rushed out of the house, just as America began to wake, and Germany, his hair no longer perfectly gelled, came running out after Romano.

For once, Romano was too upset to shout. "Italy." He said, his deep voice barely above a whisper. "That's our Grandpa. Please don't shoot our Grandpa."

With a short exhale of breath, Italy decided he trusted his brother. He dropped the gun. Ancient Rome, taking advantage of Italy letting down his guard, immediately enveloped his grandson in a suffocating hug. "Get him offa me!" Italy shouted. "Damn it, Romano. Our Grandpa's a lunatic."

Romano huffed. "Don't look at me like that's my fault." Singing with his boundless joy, Rome released Italy, who sank gratefully to the ground, and then hugged Romano, lifting his entire body off of the ground while he was at it.

"Ah, Romano, Italys' acting more like you now. It's terrible! He hurtsa my feelings."

"Wow, and I thought I was insensitive." America muttered.

Once Rome had gotten his fill of hugs and murder attempts, he skipped off to find Germania, ignoring the string of Italian curses both of his grandsons shouted after him.

The man left both of the brothers exhausted.

"Hey, Veneziano" Romano panted. "What you did with the gun was brave, I think. I mean, you almost shot our Grandfather, but I never thought you could be so-"

"Brave?" Italy snorted as he bent to pick up America's gun, an act neither America nor Germany were thrilled about. "You're the one who's brave, Romano. That's part of what makes you so frustrating. You've always been braver than me." Turning to his brother, eyes red from lack of sleep and an approaching hangover, he continued, "Don't lower your standards by trying to be like me."

This wasn't normal, Romano thought. His brother looked so tired, but he was always smiling and laughing like an idiot. Why was he being like this, and how could he change him back? The only thing Romano couldn't stand more than his brother being an idiot was his brother being sad.

"If you're only going to say nice things about me when you look like crying, than you should just smile and talk about the potato bastard."

His younger brother blinked, uncomprehendingly. "What?"

America wrapped an arm around Romano, and whispered, "Let's leave those two outside so they can talk for a while." For once, Romano couldn't find it in him to protest, so he just let the burger bastard herd him into the house, sleep already tugging at his consciousness.

Germany tried to follow, but they shut the door on him.

"Hey! Vat is the big idea?"

Ignoring him, Italy strapped the gun around his waist, then he sat back down in the grass. A cool wind was blowing, just enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Giving the jacket back may have been a mistake, the mosquitoes' were going to start eating him alive. A small shiver shook him as he stared out at the windows, the two story apartments where his children slept. They were his to protect, and yet, it felt as though he had been away from them for an eternity. In his mind, the nations and their survival had long been his top priority. Now, he could finally think about his people once more.

Germany watched, disconcerted, as Italy seemed to stare out at something far off and unreachable. He wondered what on Earth his friend could be thinking about, then a shiver passed through Italy's slender form, and he no longer felt indecisive. He sat down beside Italy in the hopes of lending his body heat to his small frame. It startled his companion, but Germany made no attempt to move away. No matter what Italy said or did, he'd made a promise to always be there for him.

Sensing Germany's thoughts, Italy hardened his gaze, though he didn't move away. Something in the way the Italian was holding himself telegraphed his exhaustion, but Germany couldn't understand why he would be fighting to stay awake or why Italy was suddenly reminding him of a proper soldier. Against his will, he found his eyes searching the starry sky for shooting stars, he wanted to take his wish back. He'd been wrong. He didn't want Italy to be more like him. Italy was fine just the way he was.

"The Pact of Steel dissolved many years ago, Germany." Italy said, bitterly. "You don't have to protect me."

"Then I'll make a new pact." Holding his pinky out, he earnestly waited for Italy to do the same.

Italy scrambled to his feet, his breath coming out in wild gasps. "Are you crazy?!"

"No crazier than my bruder." That was pretty much an affirmative.

There wasn't enough space between them. Italy tried to take another step back, but Germany grabbed his wrist, not hard enough to hurt him, but with an iron, unbreakable grip, because Italy was not the only one who could not bare the thought of losing someone he cared about.

"But I can't protect you." Italy said. In his mind, he was screaming, images and words he'd never wanted to hear again flashing before his eyes.

_Anyone who…disobeys… will run… ten laps…_

_Even though I can't even move anymore. But I'm not making a mistake. I regret nothing._

_They are both very important to me._

_I… I don't want to die here… I wanted to escape with all of you…_

_Are you hurt anywhere?_

_Did I make a mistake?_

_Please don't leave me alone!_

There was only so much more he could take before his brain would split in two.

"I know," was all Germany had to say, but it wasn't enough. Drawing on his strength, Italy wrested his arm away from the iron grip Germany had been holding it in, then he faced him again with his eyes narrowed, shallow breaths harsh and fast.

With his feet planted firmly on his ground, Italy shouted, "No! You don't know, you don't know anything, because you don't keep promises, and you don't remember anything, and... you… You know nothing! You don't know that you lied to me when you said you were going to come back, or that you lied to me when you said you'd be right behind me, or that you lied to me when you said we'd escape together, and I'm an idiot, because I believed you when you said it. I really thought-" His breathing hitched, breaking as he tried to continue. "I really thought we were going to escape together. First I thought I could make it happen, then I thought we could make it happen, then I realized… What a fool I was. If you're even the same Germany I went to that Godforsaken Hell pit with, then you're a liar, and I can't believe a word you tell me. So… don't tell me anything…"

Right then, time for hug therapy. Germany reached out, forcefully embracing Italy with the full intention of keeping him in his arms until he stopped trying to fight the hug, and for a little bit longer after that.

Instead of merely trying to squirm his way out, Italy kicked him in his sensitive spot. Despite the excruciating pain, Germany still refused to let go. He didn't even loosen his grip.

For a while, shouts could be heard, curses and threats, that broke down into pleading that broke down into an incredulous, "Why on Earth would you want to make a new pact with me?"

And with those words, the tension flew out of Germany's body. He'd been so afraid he'd lost him. Ever since he'd said the Axis had disbanded, ever since he'd yelled at England and threatened Russia, he'd been so afraid. But now he could see that Italy would always be Italy.

During war and peace, Italy always found him. Even when he didn't want to be found, the silly Italian would always come leaping into his home with a smile or a bowl of pasta. Today, he'd finally be able to repay the favor.

"I vant to protect you."

_Because if you are here, I can be myself._

Crying softly, his voice hoarse and his body exhausted, Italy pounded feebly on the taller nation's chest, "You're an idiot. A big, stupid dummy… and you smell like potatoes."

"Ah… I know that, too."

…

America poked his head around the doorway, "Hey" he purred. "What're ya guys doin'? Makin' out?"

Romano kicked America in the shin before he moved to separate Italy from Germany, only to find his brother already extricating himself from the embrace.

Italy moved away from the stricken German nation as he made a mental note to thank America for the interruption later. Germany's unexpected kindness had nearly blown his entire resolution to be strong, reverting him back to the sobbing, useless mess he'd been before he'd found himself living through Hell. Before he'd failed. Before he'd committed... his greatest sin.

If anyone didn't deserve to be protected, it was him.


	6. You Were Supposed To Protect Him

At around three in the morning, France finally managed to reunite with the group. While his first instinct was to complain loudly with his exaggerated accent, he couldn't do that after seeing Italy, Romano, Germany, and America all sprawled out on the grass like children. Hands curled together, the two Italian brothers seemed closer asleep than they ever did awake. Romano had his arm wrapped protectively around Italy, despite Italy's new attitude, though France had suspected that much of Italy's new attitude had been a result of exhaustion and frustration because, unlike England, Italy's heart was not two sizes too small. It was probably quite a bit bigger than was good for him.

A nation needed to have tough skin if they wanted to survive. Breaking under the weight of independence or war wasn't new or unusual for their kind, but he sincerely hoped the young Italian nation was stronger than he seemed. Whatever he had been through, it had almost broken him, that much was clear. It had almost broken Amerique, too. However, they had friends, and they had each other; they'd pull through.

Curling up beside the snoring form of his son's brother, France finally allowed himself to sleep with the same comforting knowledge America and Italy had slept with: the knowledge that their friends would still be there in the morning, and the knowledge that morning would come.

Tomorrow was finally a new day.

And the first thing America and Italy were going to do was blow the House, and everything in it, into a million unrecognizable pieces.

 

_YoU…WOn't…ESc…aPE_

Dew fell away from America's eyelids as he twitched awake. It was still only dawn, but he knew he wasn't going to be falling back asleep. Not after a dream like that. He'd been a soldier long enough to know what PTSD was, he'd witnessed it often enough, experiencing it was new, though. By all rights, he should probably get himself a therapist.

Did heroes get therapists?

The answer to that query probably would have mattered a whole lot more when he still thought he was a hero. Still, even if he did get himself a therapist, he couldn't exactly tell her the truth.

_Hi. You may find this hard to believe, but I'm the anthropomorphic personification of the United States, and I'm not crazy._

Wow, that therapy session would see him in a whited padded room faster than he could say, 'What's that needle for?'

By his feet, Italy seemed to be staring pensively at his people as they woke, eager to begin their day. He wasn't smiling, but he seemed content, calm even. The hair he usually kept brushed back was all in a disarray, shadowing his eyes.

Upon patting his own hair, America realized that he wasn't one to judge. His hair stuck out in every direction, because, unlike Italy, he just couldn't wake up with a perfect bed head. He tried slicking it back with his hands, but it always sprung back to exactly the same position it had been in before. Obviously, his hair had always harbored a secret dream of going into space… or playing the Wicked Witch of the West in a Wicked production.

Perfect.

He tried to roll onto his side, nearly screaming when he felt something soft rub against his back. Deep down, he had a good idea of what he would find when he turned his head, but he couldn't just live the rest of his life without turning his head. Fine. He'd just treat the whole situation like ripping off a Band-Aid.

He took a deep breath and-

3…

2…

1…

"France is sleeping behind you with his crotch rubbed up against your back." Italy said, clearly enjoying America's predicament.

The reaction was totally worth the wait. America shot up like a cannon ball, waking everyone as he shouted expletives at a frequency that dwarfed anything and everything Romano had ever come up with.

"I've been deflowered." He babbled, hiding his head in shame. "I'm no longer fit for marriage… Hell, I've been molested!"

"Amerique" started France. "You are clearly overreacting-"

"Overreacting?! You rubbed up against me with your crotch!"

Canada walked out from the little cottage, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "America, calm down."

"I AM CALM! ….Oh god, I'm gonna be sick."

Considering the massive hangover the raucous blond likely had, now coupled with the shock of finding his brother's father figure cuddling up behind him, Italy figured it was about time he ran behind his house to throw up. Unfortunately, Alfred's painful sounding, unsuccessful dry heaves just reminded him that they hadn't actually eaten anything yesterday. His own pounding headache was all the reminder he really needed when it came to remembering what they'd consumed instead of food. Today, they needed something substantial, especially since America seemed to have lost another five pounds of muscle in his sleep.

By substantial, he, of course, did not mean tomatoes, which was exactly what Romano tried to get him to eat.

Italy nearly threw him through a wall for his efforts.

 

Since the house wasn't big enough for them to all eat at the same time, they took turns eating breakfast. America and Italy decided to eat last, to the upset of just about everyone.

Germany was noticeably silent at the announcement that they would be eating together. Only his twitching eyebrow, something usually reserved for his brother, gave him away.

Whatever.

If Germany wanted to pout, let him.

Today was the day they were going to blow up that House, and nothing was going to-

"We have to call Switzerland first." America insisted, holding the phone out to Italy. While he may have been well known for his 'shoot first, ask questions later' attitude, America was no dummy. Dropping a missile on an abandoned house, however creepy, was still an act of war, and if Switzerland had his way, their planes would be shot out of the sky before they even reached the first tree on his soil, let alone the demon House.

Italy glared at the phone, his expression sour, as though he expected it to jump up and bite him.

Finally, he leaned over, grabbed the phone, and dialed Switzerland's cellphone number.

"Hey, Switzerland."

"…"

"Yes, I have a reason for calling."

"…"

"Actually, I'm planning an airstrike."

"…"

"Look if I wanted to go to war with you, I'd wait until you were fighting some other country, and then stab you when your back was turned. Were you guys even paying attention when I gained my independence from Austria? I have never fought fairly in the past, and I never plan to in the future, or if I do, it will be because someone has made a very grave mistake. The only reason I'm calling you about this airstrike is because I want you to know that I am acting on my own accord, not by the will of my people, and that my actions are personal, not an act of war. All I want is to destroy one of your houses. There is nothing remotely human or good inside of it, only creatures that have wronged me and mine greatly. Now, you can either allow me to, just this once, enter your airspace with immunity or you can try to shoot me down. To be honest, I don't care what you do, because I'm burning that House down whether you like it or not."

The phone slammed back into its receiver with more force than was necessary, shattering it across the floor. America let out a low whistle, "And I thought I had anger problems."

Italy poured himself some orange juice from the refrigerator, and made a mental note that he'd have to go shopping for more dairy and meat products soon.

"Listen, Italy, one of my bosses once said that I had to carry a big stick around, but walk softly. Right now, you're stepping on everyone's toes with a twig in your hands."

"I'll worry about that later."

Giving up for the moment, America reached into his jacket, pulling out a red, white, and blue cellphone. It'd been a Fourth of July gift from Canada. Without even bothering to look at the screen, he managed to punch in the numbers with one hand, make toast with the other, and hum the tune to the Star Spangled Banner.

Once the phone call connected, America lifted the phone to his ear, and said, "Hey, Switzerland, I just wanted to let you know that I'm with Italy on this one." Orange juice nearly went flying off the counter. "Yep, I get it, you're mad. I'd be mad, too. But hear me out, we're trying to rid your land of Steves. They're like Tony, but if Tony had a couple dozen evil, buffer cousins."

Italy tried to take the phone away, but America still had about a head of height on him. This ended up not mattering in the slightest since seconds after Italy made a grab for the phone, he heard the dial tone.

"Huh, I think he hung up on me."

The fact that this seemed to honestly surprise the younger nation threw his bemused companion for a loop.

"You told him we wanted to blow up a house invaded by Steves." Emphasized Italy, his hands flailing about his sides. "How can you even be surprised right now?"

"It just comes to me naturally." Dropping his voice dramatically, America added, "It's my greatest gift, and my greatest curse."

The reference went completely over Italy's head. Shrugging the matter off for the time being, the two ended up having a nice dinner of eggs, scrambled for Italy, over-easy for America, and toast. It only took them the first bite to realize they were ravenous.

They scarfed down their food like two starved men, and then they went back to make seconds.

After the meal, America looked noticeably healthier. His cheeks weren't quite so gray looking. Even his hair seemed to have gotten some of his sheen back.

No one ever wants to go to war, but in the event that they do, they usually want to do it after a full meal and a good night's rest. America had had some rest and a good meal and that was just going to have to cut it. Not even death would have stopped him from flying with Italy that day.

An image of dripping fangs, bulbous black eyes, and grotesque purple skin, barely stretched over bulging muscles, positioned over a torso too large for its legs, passed through his mind, sickening him.

_YoU…DIdn'T…ESc…aPE_

Once they were finished, America chose to change back into his uniform. From out of the highest drawer of the cabinet, Italy pulled out a long, loose, olive jacket with four pockets on the front, and white stars at the tips of its collar. The material was made to be wind and heat resistant, perfect for flying in. After he pulled on the matching pants, Italy started putting his arms through the jacket.

"You look underage," commented America, regarding Italy's final look. With a small frown, Italy tried putting his cap on over his messy hair. "Well now you just look underage with a cap on." Both their eyes were red rimmed from their night of drinking, so Italy had been counting on them appearing to be two, slightly hung over soldiers. That wouldn't work if they both appeared to be under the age of twenty.

Maybe he'd just pull rank. As a nation, he could borrow two fighter planes and then give them back with little to no repercussions. He'd done so during WWII, after all… Since when did America look under twenty?

In a sudden movement, America found himself being dragged outside by his arm. It couldn't have been time to go yet, there were still things he wanted to talk about.

"Hey, what's the rush?" He asked, then did a small double take. His voice sounded odd, hoarse.

Italy shouted out for Canada who came running, stopping short upon seeing America, who now looked no older than sixteen, and was way too thin for it to be healthy.

"What's going on, Italy? What's happening to him?" Canada asked, his voice high despite trying his best not to panic.

"You need to take care of your brother. I thought the barrier England made was just for his memories, but I was wrong. It was weird that he'd block America's memories and not mine, but I didn't- I didn't question it. And now he's losing too much weight too fast. I'm not sure if it's a curse that managed to follow us out, but I do know this- Whatever happened to us, it's not over. I need to leave. Now."

Canada caught America when Italy passed him to him, and was surprised by how light his brother had gotten. One day wasn't long enough for a country to sustain enough damage to warrant such a physical change, and it wasn't just that he was losing weight. Two hundred years ago, this was how his brother had looked.

"I'm not staying behind, Italy. I can't let you do this alone." America said. Italy looked to Canada, but the boy in the winter coat firmly shook his head. HIs brother and Italy had been keeping secrets, he'd known that, but it hadn't mattered quite so much before. He'd thought they'd tell him eventually, that's what he'd told England, but now he couldn't give them that time anymore, because his brother didn't have that time.

"Do what, America? What have you two been planning?" Canada narrowed his eyes, livid, before he zeroed in on Italy. "You said you wanted to protect my brother. Are you telling me that was a lie? Did you just want to use him for some personal reason you didn't feel like telling us about?" With one hand free, Canada grabbed Italy by his collar, dragging him close so his eyes could bore into his. Then he forced Italy to look at America's pale, emaciated form, "You said you were going to protect him. Germany told us we could trust you, and we were so stupid, because we listened to him!"

America started, "Listen, Canada, I'm fine. You're overreacting."

Just as Canada was about to blow his top, the other nations came running to see what the commotion was. France and England demanded to know what was going on, while Germany moved to take Italy away from Canada.

America pushed away from Canada, saying he could stand fine on his own, thank you very much. England gasped when he saw just how much weight America had lost. "What? You guys wanted me to lose weight, right? This is nothing. I haven't lost my strength, so I don't need to be defended, and don't even think about pitying me. I'll kick your asses so hard you'll be tasting it for weeks." He crossed his arms, holding his head high. Standing there before them, proud and fragile, with a slight frown on his face, he seemed so much like the young child he used to be.

"Are you insane?" England yelled. "You look like a scarecrow. That's not just a little weight loss. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were dissolving." Italy flinched at the word as Germany and America managed to pry him away from Canada, who was still doing his best to strangle him.

Rubbing his throat gingerly, Italy muttered, "I don't know for sure what's wrong with America. Being here was supposed to help him, but when he suddenly got better, I thought we could do what I wanted to do in the first place-"

"And what was that?" Germany asked, having finally gotten sick of being shut out.

Italy moved to speak, but America silenced him with a pointed look.

"I'll tell you guys everything." America started. "What we plan to do, and what happened to us, but you need to listen. That means no questions, and no interruptions, unless Canada wants to say something." If Canada wanted to say something, it was usually something worth listening to. It'd taken him a while to learn that, but he hadn't forgotten. Trying to keep his brother from the frontlines had proved useless, hiding information from him only put him in danger, but now was his chance to show Canada that he didn't think of him as a burden or useless. Canada was his brother, his twin, how could he have ever thought he wasn't important when he was the other half of his soul?

And yet, America had learned once, that was exactly what Canada thought.

"Well, it's about damn time." grumbled England. France rolled his eyes. Their clothes still looked dirty and rumbled from their night sleeping on the ground, their hair a disheveled mess, and yet the Frenchman still managed to look good.

Thinking it would be best if Italy were kept busy, America asked him to bring out chairs and make some tea. Biting back a retort, Italy agreed, though he didn't miss the larger nation's trembling legs. He made sure to catch Canada's eye before he went inside. Canada looked confused for a second as Italy shifted his gaze from him to America's legs, then he too noticed the trembling, and moved to America's side. Being his brother's strength was new to him, but Canada was happy to steady him.

America looked at the two of them gratefully. Then he began their story.

 

In a few minutes, Romano, France, England, and America were seated in a circle out on Italy's lawn. Canada had insisted he didn't need a seat, preferring to stand. The sun shone over them, not fully, but enough for them to know it was no longer early morning when Italy brought out their tea.

The story seemed to be moving along rather quickly, since America was already at the loop where they chose their human names when Italy came out with five cups of tea. He used his favorite earthenware to serve tea for his guests.

The outsides of the cups were glossed and smooth to the touch, painted a beautiful shade of orange he liked to call clementine. One of his children had given it to him as a present. She'd made it as a high school project, so it wasn't perfect, but it was the most beautiful piece of art in the world to him. He'd treasured it for decades already, but he'd never found a proper occasion to use it.

"You're tea cups seem to be a tad misshapen, Italy." England noted upon inspecting his cup. "Who made this, a monkey? You?"

France came to Italy's defense before Romano could. "Hon hon hon, mon ami, can you not tell? That is called modern art. Well, I wouldn't expect someone of your caliber to know art when he sees it."

"What was that, Frog?"

"Hey, do I get some tea?" America asked, trying to defuse the situation before a brawl broke out. "I'm a little thirsty." It worked. France and England stopped fighting. They sagged back into their seats, the fight drained out of them.

Italy cast an anxious glance at England, then carefully replied, "You don't like tea. I'll get you some water."

Bemused, America asked Canada, "Since when don't I like tea?"

"You like coffee." Canada supplied. America made a disgusted face.

"Blegh. Coffee? That stuff's as bitter as England's scones." Upon realizing he'd made a mistake, he tried to amend himself. "I mean, I probably like coffee. Nothing wrong with it. Tea's, uh, tea is for... people who don't... I don't drink it, right?"

Nodding, Canada did his best to smile and look cheerful. Now wasn't the time for tears. And it would be silly to cry, because America would remember his past, eventually. He always came through when it mattered. He'd come through this time.

Germany tried to catch Italy's eye as he was served, but his friend kept his face lowered, not daring to meet the German's eyes lest he give himself away.

After everyone was served and starting to drink their tea, America restarted his story, and Italy went inside to wait. The tea had a unique taste to it, but none of them thought enough of it to stop drinking.

The first to fall was England.


	7. Betrayal

_**Forty-Five Minutes Earlier** _

Once inside his house, tears began to well up. He felt like a fool, a complete and utter fool. Even after everything they'd been through, everything England, Germany, Japan, and the others had done for them, they still weren't free, not completely, from the influence of those monsters. If he had killed them sooner, America wouldn't be wasting away outside his door, and now that he could, now that he wanted to more than anything else, that same nation had sent him inside to bring out chairs and make tea, while he wasted precious time explaining what had happened to the very people they didn't even really want involved.

What did he think would happen if they lost England or Germany again? There were no more loops, no more reruns. Anyone who died was permanently lost. It's possible that since they were nations they'd get better, but the monsters had proven capable of canceling out their healing abilities, cutting them off from the good will of their people, and even entering their minds.

That was how the monsters spoke, if speaking you could call it. That was how he suspected they had taken their memories, and that was how they were draining America.

Canada's words rushed, unbidden, to the surface of his mind.

_You said you were going to protect him!_

The words had cut a wound into his heart. He'd been so sure they were safe, so sure they could kill the monsters that had destroyed them anytime they wanted, that he had forgotten the power they held over the mind. It was his fault if America was dying. He'd promised he'd protect him from harm, but one look at young nation was enough to tell anyone that he wasn't qualified to be anyone's protector.

That didn't mean he was happy with being relegated to the sidelines.

The warm air in his house felt thick, too thick to breathe comfortably. Normally, he'd open a window or a door, but he didn't want to hear what America was telling the others. Frustrated, he practically threw the few chairs he had and a few pillows out of the house.

"Thanks, Italy" He heard America call in a forced, cheerful tone of voice.

Hadn't America promised to stop doing that? They were supposed to only smile when it came naturally… even if that meant they never smiled.

Then again, maybe he'd just forgotten how to be honest in front of his family. He always tried so hard to be confident and optimistic in front of Canada and England. It was only in the dead of night, when he was sure all the others were asleep, that Italy could hear his muffled sobs. By the time America had started crying in the night, Italy had already cried himself dry. There wasn't anything he could have done to comfort him back then. Moving would have drawn attention, speaking to him alone would have drawn suspicion. So many times he'd wished he could have done more… Maybe now he could.

Expression hardened with its new resolve, Italy set about making tea. The old tea set in his cabinet, the one Paulo's daughter had made him when she was still a young girl, would do well. It would be his first time using the tea set, but if everything went well, it wouldn't be his last. That said, he couldn't imagine living a life that didn't revolve around escaping or destroying the House anymore. What was he expected to do? Who could he talk to? What was he supposed to say?

And what if… he and America never got their memories back? If that happened, America would probably be fine, but there was no way he'd be-

A streak of sunshine squeezed through a crack in one of Italy's shutters, falling on the painting he had made of Japan and Germany, setting it aglow.

Italy looked up at the Heavens, his face twisted into a bitter smirk, saying, "That's not even funny." Then he stuffed the crack with a paper towel, blocking out the light.

He couldn't turn to his friends. They'd be there for him if he did, they always had, but in the end, there was nothing they could do for him that they hadn't already tried. In a sense, he'd been alone for a long time, and he just needed to accept that things were going to stay that way. There was no going back to what had been.

And besides, they'd never forgive him, not after what he planned to do.

The cabinets in Italy's kitchen contained various types of tea and spices, but those could all be found within easy reach. The reason for that was so that no one would go rummaging for a spice they couldn't find, and accidentally happen upon a small vial, imported specially from Japan's nation. The fluid it contained was clear, like water, but it wasn't water and it wasn't a spice.

It was a poison that could block the nerves and paralyze the body. He'd never really thought he'd ever get a chance to use it, what with Italy being in a state of relative peace, but just as he was finally getting a chance to use his clementine tea set, so, too, was he getting a chance to use Tetrodotoxin.

In small doses, such as in small slices of puffer fish, the toxin merely resulted in mouth numbness. In large doses, it could paralyze the lungs. In near lethal doses, it could leave a person paralyzed yet fully conscious for days.

Not sure if the nations healing abilities were still in effect, but suspecting they might be, Italy poured about 25 milligrams of the toxin into each of their cups, adding honey in order to hopefully mask any peculiar taste.

After he wordlessly served them their tea, he retreated back into his house, and waited for the nations to begin realizing, too late, what had been done to them.

Of course, they wouldn't notice right away, but after 20-30 minutes, the toxin would likely begin to take full effect, leaving them paralyzed but still fully conscience.

That likely meant that America would get to finish their story before they started panicking.

While he cleaned the dishes from breakfast, Italy idly wondered if America had included all those times he'd locked them up in the jail cell. It's possible he hadn't. You'd think the nations would think twice about drinking the tea he served them after he'd agreed to make it for them without much of an argument. It seemed they still hadn't learned to be suspicious of him, and in that, if only that, he was lucky.

Back in the House, he and America had had one thing in common- they wanted to get everyone out alive. That goal had created a bond between them that formed faster and faster with every new loop, their shared memories cementing it.

Now, they didn't have that shared goal anymore. America didn't seem to care as much about the airstrike as he did.

In the time it took Italy to clear the table, wash, dry, and put away his dishes, fold the clothes his guest had strewn across his floor, notice that Germany had carefully folded his uniform, stroke the uniform, and take the paper towel out from the crack, the toxin had begun to take affect. Muffled cries, barely understandable due to numb tongues, reached his ears through the cracks in his walls. In a few more minutes even the cries stopped. That came as a huge relief to him, since Germany and Romano had been calling his name.

The black cap he'd shown to America was still lying on the table, so he picked it up and screwed it on his head. Next, he found an old pin of his flag and stuck it to his chest.

If he needed to be the villain to get things done, he would be. He could play the part as well as any of the others, and once he left his house, the hardest part would be over.

Strange. He should have been used to betraying his friends by now, yet his chest still felt as though it were being squeezed. His heart hurt.

The first few steps to the door were even harder than he'd imagined they'd be, so he paused a moment to catch his breath and to remind himself what was at stake. If he didn't go through with this, America would die. Finally, he choked down a sob, composed his features into a cool mask, and walked outside.

For some reason, he'd expected it to be raining buckets, with huge gusts of hateful wind blowing in his face, or for it to be as freezing as an Artic winter outside. Only miserable weather could have been appropriate for the sight of all his friends lying still and lifeless on the ground. The sky above, the sky he had longed to see again, together with them, held no clouds, and the wind that caressed his cheeks was warm and gentle, not harsh as it should have been.

Germany had apparently been on his way to his house when he collapsed. He laid face down in Italy's bushes. A little further and his face would have hit the stone path when he fell.

England had been reaching for America, who was now cradling Canada's head in his lap, when he fell.

Romano laid in the bushes next to Germany, and France had made sure to land on his back, close his eyes, and cross his hands over his chest. Apparently, he didn't get the memo that it wasn't a fatal toxin or remember that they were nations who couldn't be fatally poisoned. On the other hand, it was far more likely that he was just messing around.

Like gentle rain, America's heartbroken tears fell on his brothers pale cheeks. He looked up as Italy approached, his unwavering gaze full of fear, anger, and confusion. Cradling his brother's head protectively against his chest, he whispered, "Did you do this?"

Too choked to answer, though still outwardly composed, Italy just nodded. It would have ben too hard to do anything else.

"Why? Why did you do this, Italy?" He trembled, voice breaking. "They were starting to understand. I could see it in their eyes! How could you do this?" The words floated for a while, before dying in the air like a half remembered song.

Looking around, it was like being back there again, except no one was dead. Bodies were strewn about the grass, eyes open, staring sightlessly- No, not sightlessly, they could see everything just fine. They could hear and they could breath, they just couldn't move, couldn't speak.

Ignoring America for the moment, Italy moved to drag his brother and his precious friend out of the bushes. Besides a few scratches, they didn't seem to be injured in anyway, which was one good thing, at least. He laid them down by England and France, not failing to notice the way their eyes followed him as he moved.

"Answer me, Feliciano! What have you done to them?" America shouted, despite the pain it caused him to do so.

"They'll be fine, Alfred." Italy assured him. "Don't hurt yourself anymore. If they were humans, the toxin I slipped into their tea would have kept them paralyzed for days, but they're not humans, now are they?" His lips quirked upwards in a pathetic, quivering imitation of a smile. "They're nations, Alfred. They won't die from something as inconsequential as poison. In an hour or so, they'll be up and complaining again. You'll see." Well, he wasn't sure if it would happen that fast, but it was always a good idea to give someone on the verge of breaking down something to hold on to... Germany had taught him that.

One thing Italy hadn't counted on was how traumatic the experience of watching his fellow nations and his brother fall once again would be to the young superpower. There hadn't been many other options, but he should have at least thought of it for a moment. It should have entered his head that despite America's attempts to act like everything was normal, to ignore his deteriorating body, he was just as scared as he was, if not more so.

Turning away from the boy, for that was what he was, Italy brusquely told America to close their eyes, or else they'd dry out, then he knelt by Romano, and whispered something in his ear. Then he knelt down by England and France, repeating the process.

Finally, he knelt by Germany's side. Even paralyzed, his brow seemed somehow furrowed. Disbelieving, pleading eyes looking out at a world he could not longer touch. Without a word, Italy grasped his hand, and whispered, "Germany, because I met you, I got to be friends with everyone, and it was really fun, you know? But now I have to say goodbye." He knelt down, gently kissing Germany on both of his cheeks, then added, "I've told you this before, but, in my country, that is how we say goodbye to the people most precious to us… Thank you for taking care of me and for being my friend."

Startled by the sudden change in Italy's attitude, America gently lowered Canada's head onto the grass, closed his eyes, then struggled to get to his feet. "Where are you thinking of going? What are you planning?" There wasn't enough strength in his legs to hold his weight, he fell forward, and this time, Italy didn't move to catch him. America fell as Italy rose to his feet.

Bitterly coughing out the grass he'd accidentally inhaled, America looked up in time to see the Italian nation walking away. "Don't leave! I have to go with you." His elbows dug into the dirt, pulling him closer to Italy's back.

Without turning, Italy said, "You can't even walk. What makes you think you'd be anything but a burden to me?" He willed himself not to flinch as he said it. America had to believe this was how he truly felt or it wouldn't work at all.

The eyes of the paralyzed nations followed the two as they spoke, but Germany kept his solely on Italy's back. It was almost imperceptible to the human eye, just a slight tremor, but that tremor was all Germany needed for him to guess, correctly, why Italy couldn't turn around.

Still struggling to move forward with nothing but his arms, America shouted, "You can't- You don't have the right to do this without me." He dug his chin into the dirt, trying to move faster, for fear Italy's back would disappear if he didn't. "I lost friends, I lost my brother, I lost memories, and all to those purple bastards. After what they did to us, do you really think I can just lie here and wait for you to take care of them for me?"

"America, you've told me before that you're not a hero." America waited, wondering what Italy was trying to say. "If you're not a hero, than what are you?" When America didn't answer he continued, "What good are you?"

The young nation stopped trying to move forward, as though the words alone had functioned as their own paralytic.

Italy clenched his shaking hands into fists by his side, pressing his nails into the soft flesh of his palms until he felt the soft click of broken skin. Then he went into his house for a moment, before coming out with a white flag.

With a contemptuous glance, he tossed it at the frozen boy's weakened form, letting it fall over his head.

"That flag fits you better than your old one. Stay here and surrender yourself to your self-pity, if that's all you're good for now. I don't have the time to coddle you." With that, he turned sharply, only for him to hear a hoarse voice call out, "Wait!"

Slowly, turned to see the young blond holding a gun at his back. "Give me the antidote." His body shook as he spoke. "I don't need to go with you; we can wait for them to wake up together."

For a second, Italy was afraid his mask was going to slip, then he managed a sneer, and said, "And if I refuse? Will you shoot, oh great leader? I was your ally once."

"You still are! I don't get what we did to upset you, but we can overcome it. Just wait!" Italy moved to step down the path, a shot rang out, leaving only a small bleeding cut on Italy's right cheek as evidence that it had happened at all. He moved to step again. "Don't move another step. I'm warning you, Feliciano!" Shaking his head, he just continued to walk down the path he had carved with his own two hands, and then eventually, he was out of sight all together.

Still shaking, America dropped his gun, while observing, in honest disbelief, that he didn't shoot him.

No. It wasn't just that he didn't.

"I couldn't shoot him." The despair in his voice mirrored that of a similar despair he had seen centuries ago, and forgotten. "Why not?" The trembling wouldn't stop. It was strong enough to dislodge his glasses as he tilted his head towards that hatefully clear blue sky.

The paralyzed nations said nothing, though he hadn't expected then to. However, England was doing his very best to move, to speak, to do anything. It was all useless.

"You guys, I'm sorry." America continued, barely aware that he was even being heard. "I used to be really great, but if I can't even keep one friend from leaving…" He forced his hollowed face into one last shadow of a smile, struggling to appear cheerful even as the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, falling on his brother's face like the gentle rain he wanted to pretend was falling.

"…Then I guess… I'm not anymore."

 

The young man in the general's uniform walked down the street with a wide gait, his arms swinging mechanically by his side. Passersby moved to stay out his way. His face, set as it was in a mask of grim determination, was completely out of place in the peaceful streets of Venice.

Which is part of why it was such a surprise to him when a little girl broke away from her mother to tug at his pants. "Hey, signore, why are you so sad?" Dark haired, with skin as pale as a porcelain doll's, she seemed to him like a very small angel.

Of course, the mother, a young woman with dark curls and a yellow sundress, came quickly to retrieve her daughter. She apologized profusely for her daughter's actions, but the Italian soldier, or she assumed he was, told her there was no problem.

Since she wasn't in any hurry, she asked the young soldier where he was going. He seemed distressed for a moment, before replying, "Aviano Air Base."

"Aviano Air Base? That's about 50 miles north from here… Are you looking for a ride?"

There wasn't enough time for that, the 'soldier' decided.

"No, but thank you, signora. I need to leave soon, but…" He knelt, removing the pin of the Italian flag from his jacket, and placed it in the hands of the curious child who had first clung to him. "That flag is very important me" He cast a questioning glance at the girl's mother.

"Simone." She supplied, happy to see the way her daughter lit up at the sight of the gift.

He clasped the child's hands over the flag, saying, "Simone, do you think you can take care of one of my dearest treasures? I'll be counting on you."

Eagerly, she nodded her head, causing him to chuckle at her enthusiasm. If only he had more time, he could have gotten to know them better, maybe even become friends with them.

Instead, he quickly bid them farewell, rubbing the child's hair fondly one last time, as he said, "How can I be possibly sad when I live in a place filled with so many lovely ladies?" His words lit up the young girl's face in a light flush he didn't really understand, but her mother quickly realized who had inadvertently made himself the first crush of her precocious six-year-old.

Once the mother and her child had returned to their yellow apartment building, with its red tiled roof, the soldier snuck into the first car he knew for certain wasn't theirs, and stole it.

It just so happened the first car he saw was an unoccupied, vermillion Ferrari. If the police didn't catch him, and if he drove like he usually did, they wouldn't, he'd arrive at the Air base in half an hour.

The only glaring problem in his plan was he needed to get into the car without triggering its alarm system. It didn't take a rocket scientist prodding him in the back for him to realize how little nation hopping into a nearby car would affect him.

All it took was a momentary jolt, a mildly unpleasant sensation, and he was in leather seats, with the keys having been thrown carelessly onto the passenger's seat.

Careful to avoid pedestrians, he careened onto the street in his new Ferrari, striking the fear of God into anyone who saw him drive.

And he couldn't even enjoy it.

A flash of America's disconsolate face appeared in his rearview mirror, the light in his eyes extinguished, reminding him that he had gone to far and done too much to let himself feel joy. The Iron Cross he still wore weighed heavily on his chest, as he wondered how much more pain he was willing to cause if it meant his people and his friends would be safe from harm.

In the end, he realized that he would betray them a thousand times, and a thousand times again, if it meant ensuring their survival. He would even betray himself if he had to. In fact, that was exactly what he planned to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so realistically, Italy can't drive a car across Venice, because it's a series of canals, not roads. But there are roads in Venice... and also I thought the image was cool when I wrote it.


	8. If Only Time Would Stop

The people of Venice watched, transfixed, as three young men struggled to make their way down the canal in their cheap, rented gondola. The man rowing the gondola, a silvered haired albino in his early 20's, seemed about as skilled at rowing at a boat as he would probably be at breathing underwater.

In front of their gondola, a small bird seemed to doing its very best to fly against the wind. Though it was being pushed back at regular intervals, encouragement from the man with the paddle raised its spirits, driving it forward.

"Go, Gilbird, fly with all of your awesomeness. Take us to West!"

A small crowd gathered over the bridge, since it wasn't every day a Spaniard in a gaudy green Hawaiian shirt, a pale, white-haired Russian in a winter coat, and a red-eyed young man, with eyes the color of saffron and hair the color of starlight, road down the canal in a boat they had no idea how to sail. In fact, the three men were also wondering about the wisdom of their decision to ride in a gondola, when they could have just walked.

After the meeting of nations had ended, Prussia had gone to the nearest bar to hang out with some of his favorite soldiers for a time. It wasn't until he'd woken up, alone in an empty house, that he'd realized something might have gone wrong. It wasn't like West to leave the house for two days without calling him, texting him, and emailing him, just to make sure he knew not to throw any wild parties while he watched the house.

As it turns out, Spain was suffering a panic attack at around the same time due to Romano's absence, and Russia was already on his way to have some words with Italy. So, all three of them decided to go together. When they arrived in Venice, Prussia wanted to row the gondola, Russia had never been in one before, and Spain just wanted to find Romano.

In the half hour they had been inhabiting their rented gondola, the three of them had moved approximately fifteen feet against the current. Essentially, they're taking a very long time, and expending a lot of effort, to slowly go nowhere.

Eventually, Russia just used his pipe to row the boat towards the canal's walls, leaving quite a few people wondering where his pipe had come from. Spain and Prussia climbed the wall, the latter loudly proclaiming that all had gone just as he had planned it, while Russia handed the oar to the nearest male Italian, in the hopes that he would row it back.

Fifteen minutes later they were walking down Italy's street, which just goes to show how much time they wasted trying to row a gondola.

The two storied apartments with their red roofs were impressive, but Spain preferred his terracotta roves to Italian architecture.

Prussia had actually been to Italy's house many times before, calling his need for Gilbird's directions into question. One may even wonder if he was just wasting time for the heck of it.

Once they reached Paulo's house, one the man's grandchildren, his curly haired granddaughter, Emily, to be exact, approached Russia. Spain reached out to pat her head, but Prussia tackled him to the ground before he could do little more than compliment her yellow dress.

"Oomph! What was that for?" Spain exclaimed, trying to push his friend off of him.

Slightly nervous, Prussia tried to tentatively explain that having Russia near a kid was bad enough, having a pedophile near the kid would be like tying her to a lit rocket. They might as well start singing hymns and planning funeral arrangements.

The child, however, seemed to like Russia. Maybe she sensed his loneliness, or his deep desire to have friends, but when she reached out them, a brilliant smile gracing her lips, there was no trace of fear in her eyes.

Russia gave a bewildered glance towards his two companions, not sure what to do with the child, when a startled squeak spun his head around in time for him to catch the child falling. He reached out to halt her fall, and as he did, she placed her two small hands on his cheeks.

"Pretty" She giggled, voice sweet like honey. Russia's childlike face flushed a brilliant pink, brightening the violet eyes the girl seemed to like so much.

He clasped her hands in his as Prussia and Spain watched on, astonished by his gentleness.

Back in his homeland, the children don't approach him. They sense that there is something strange about him, something off, and their parents fear him, so he mostly keeps to himself. Therefore. the warmth of a child's hand on his face was new and strange to him, but not unpleasant.

A young boy, around the age of seven, peered around the door the girl had left ajar. "Emmy! Get back inside." He glared fiercely at the tall man touching his sister.

Flashing one more beaming smile, the little girl tugged away from Russia, rushing back inside to pacify her worried brother, who found that he couldn't be too mad at such a cute face. Her brother was mildly frustrated by his inability to be strict regarding his sister, but he let her go, watching fondly as she scampered into the house. Then he stuck his tongue out, closing the door on the three strange foreigners.

Even after the heat from her touch had faded, Russia continued to blush at her words. No one had ever told him his eyes were pretty before.

 

America watched, stonefaced, as a dark storm began to roll in. The green blades of grass surrounding him, the Felicia flowers with their varied colors, even the trees seemed to bend and sway in the wind as it gathered force and speed.

To him, everything seemed drained of color, as though he were watching the world through a sheet of glass, the slightest touch shattering it into a million pieces.

There wasn't anywhere he wanted to go, nothing he wanted to do, and nothing he wanted to see. As for his family, they didn't need him. They never had. He had always been the one needing others, all while boasting about his strength.

While the time passed, he fought to keep his consciousness somewhere in the middle of alert and nonexistent. Though his head faced the sky, he wasn't really looking at it. Though rain drops streaked down his cheeks, washing away the tears and the grime that had coated him, he couldn't really feel them. He simply drifted, his clothes loose, his back slightly arched, and tried not to think about what he would see if he looked down, or about what he would see if he looked inside himself. If everything, every color, washed away and turned to gray, it wouldn't have made a difference to him.

It'd been almost an hour since Italy had abandoned him with their paralyzed friends, and fingers were already beginning to twitch, which meant he'd been right about their advanced healing abilities. Germany could even speak, but he couldn't open his mouth. This proved to be a moot point since calling out for Italy, with emotions ranging from rage to concern to despair, was all he'd done for the past five minutes.

A rustling in the Felicia bushes startled America, forcing him out of his detached state by alerting him to a possible threat, so he unholstered the one gun that hadn't been taken from him, lifted it to eye level, and waited. If he had been alone, he wouldn't have moved, but the instinct to protect is not so easily quashed. Air rushed past him as his adrenaline rose, until Spain, Prussia, and Russia came stumbling unto the path. Seeing him in his weakened state, they immediately realized something was wrong.

The lined up, twitching bodies of their fellow nations only served to further confirm that realization. Spain rushed to Romano's side, calling his name, and desperately trying to shake him awake

"Hey, America, this, uh, wouldn't happen to be a sleepover… would it?" Prussia asked, obviously aware that it wasn't yet trying to lighten the mood regardless, as he knelt down by Germany's side and reached for his hand. The tension left him soon after he felt the strong, almost rapid pulse in his wrist.

No answer was to be had from the young nation, who at the moment was resuming the act he had forgone, comforting the brother whose head rested in his lap. Russia observed him hush his younger brother as he struggled to move, to speak. America was not one he had ever known to speak softly, and yet, here he was, whispering, "It'll be okay. Give it a few more minutes and you'll be able to move again. There's no need to try and rush it. You'll be okay."

"How the mighty have fallen, eh, America?" The Russian cruelly interjected, referring to dullness of the younger nation's eyes, the paleness of his skin, and the thinness of his body.

Spain and Prussia both spared him a glare, but America had nothing to say except, "They'll all be okay soon. Romano, Germany, and… France, get up. You didn't even drink the tea."

France sat up in the grass, brushing off his frilly clothes as he did so. He didn't even need to speak. The smile on his face was practically its own insult. "I am sorry, Amerique, I just-"

"I don't want your excuses, France. We were allies once, now we're not. It's as simple as that. Go home."

The truth was, France had been planning to reveal himself after Italy had left, but when the time came, he judged it better to let America be by himself for a while. This was all true, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Hundreds of years of being dishonest had left him more defensive, more guarded, than he had ever wished to be.

Only two beings had ever made it past his defenses. One of them was his son, and the other… was long dead.

So, instead of speaking up, he simply withdrew, drawing his outreached hand back as though bitten.

"Take my brother home with you." Upon hearing this, Canada's eyes flew open, then he began to flop like a fish in America's lap, throwing his arms and legs around without much motor control. No matter what, he wasn't leaving. Not when he was needed. "Now don't be like that, Canada. I mean, you don't even like me that much, so just stop squirming and-" Canada's flailing arm smacked him the face. "Well, ow…"

Russia, deciding he'd had enough, decided to step up. "America, why don't you tell us what has happened? Where is Italy?"

"He put a paralytic in the tea he gave us" replied America, bitterness welling up. "Right about now, he's probably trying to get to Switzerland. Thinks blowing the house up will save me."

"Why didn't he poison you too?"

The words hissed past America's lips, as quiet as a whisper,"…He didn't have to."

Rain began to fall from the sky in torrents, drenching all of them, even Spain as he desperately grasped at his henchman's hands. The kids ran inside, the men came in from the fields, ready to kiss their wives and embrace their children.

But young, weakened nation in front of them didn't move, he only erupted into violent shivers. Prussia looked at him with concern as Germany began to regain his mobility, Spain with pity, but Russia only looked at him with blatant disgust. He tore the jacket off his back, draping it roughly around America's shoulders, to his surprise.

"What is this?" Russia demanded. "You're my rival. How dare you appear so weak in front of me? You are not allowed to be weakened unless it is I who made you so."

"Hahaha!" A familiar chuckle, reduced to the sound of dead leaves rustling. While wiping tears from his eyes, America grimaced. He'd meant for the expression to be a grin, but his skin and muscles were no longer capable of that. "Do you know what we call rivals in my country, Russia?"

Wary, disappointed, and sad for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, Russia shook his head.

"We call them friends."

The great Russian staggered back, the breath stolen from his chest. He glanced around him as though suspecting some trick, some great ploy to fool him into letting down his guard. Only red and green eyes, both filled with a mix of fear and curiosity met his gaze. There was no deception to be found.

"What are you trying to tell me, America?"

"I'm trying to say" He coughed, red spilling over his lips. "I've been your friend for almost a century, and you never noticed. I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry I didn't."

"Don't apologize to me. Don't you dare apologize to me. Stand up."

Instead, of standing America tried to hand his brother to France. The poison was almost completely metabolized, so all efforts to move Canada were thwarted by Canada wrapping his arms around his brother's throat like a noose.

"I said 'Get up'!" Russia roared. "Stand up, America!"

After breathing a heavy sigh, America gave Russia, a sad, level look, before saying, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't move my legs anymore."

England, who had begun to crawl his way over to his former charge, and Canada stared at him in utter disbelief.

"You're lying" The green eyed nation whispered, his voice welled up as he willed his arms and legs to move. Inch by inch, he struggled, until he was finally able to wrap his arms around his two boys. Canada stretched his arm over him, weeping as he did so.

"You idiot!" England cried. "You can't- This can't be happening. You're still my boy. You're still so young. I was always supposed to go before you did."

Fragile hands wrapped comfortingly around England and Canada's heads. America held them close to him, breathed in their scent as though it would be the last time. He wanted that moment, holding them in the rain, to never end, but time passes even for nations, and as it always does, time passed for them as well. Reluctantly, America ordered France to get his son and his friend out of there.

Germany and Romano obviously wanted to go after Italy, but-

"You're coming with us, aren't you, you bastard?" Romano asked, in his usual manner.

Germany added, "Italy will want to see you when we catch up with him."

"Nah, I'm be fine." America assured them, trying to smile again. "You guys go get Italy, tell him he's being an idiot, and I'll be here when you get back. Then we'll all go out to eat. My treat."

Still hesitant, Romano said, "You're sure right? You're not just saying that? I mean, if we come back and you're gone, Veneziano would cry and that'd be really annoying, so… You have to promise you'll still be here, idiot."

Even if they weren't on the most friendly of terms, he'd known America for years. The world wouldn't be the same without him.

America held out his pinky, saying, "I swear it."

Romano flushed, "I'm not going to do a pinky swear, idiot. That's for kids and…" He trailed off after a quick glance at Spain, who was looking uncharacteristically grave. Then in two quick strides, he strode over to America and secured their pinkies. "I'm coming back for you." Then he turned and walked away, Spain trailing after him.

Prussia clapped America on the shoulder before following, saying, "These fools are all worried for nothing. No reason at all. I know how tough you are. Trained you myself, didn't I?"

"Yeah. Yeah, ya did."

Suddenly somber, Prussia added "Hang in there, kid. Whatever Italy's doing, he's doing it to save you. Now I know he's not known for being competent, or mature, or brave, but there's no way he'd let his friends down. Or he would, but not when it really counts... The point is, we're not just going to bring him back. We're going to help him save you."

"That speech got a little depressing in the middle, man, but you pulled it through in the end."

With one last smile and another clap on the shoulder, Prussia was gone. France knocked out the crying England, then threw Canada, who fought him ferociously, over his shoulder. Then he turned and said, "Don't disappear on us, Amerique. It would break them. As sure as the air I breathe, it would break them."

"I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" America replied rather testily. They both knew it was a front.

"...I don't want to lose you, either."

America found himself too startled by the admission to speak for a moment.

Loss is part of being a nation. They outlive their citizens by centuries, sometimes thousands of years. France knew this better than anyone, but he didn't want his son to feel the sharp pain that he felt everyday when he thought of what could have been, and of what his cowardice and his immortality had cost him. Not yet.

"I know." He finally said, once his brain started up again. "Take care of my brother for me, will ya?"

"You have my word as a womanizer." America wrinkled his noise a little, frowning at the choice of words. "It's the strongest word I can give, I assure you. If I break it, I shall have to forever forgo women and drink."

America plastered a small grin on his face, proof of his satisfaction with the oath.

Ignoring Canada's screams, France bid farewell to his young, fellow nation, and then walked down the path Italy had bordered with the Felicia flowers. Some of them were blue, like the sky. He tried not to look at those as he walked away from someone he had, in his deepest heart of hearts, also thought of as like a son to him.

Finally, only Russia and Germany were left. America waited for Russia to say something, anything, and it seemed the big guy was going to. His mouth was certainly working extra hard, but then he just turned and walked away as well. The sound of his wretched sobs traveled up the path as he walked down.

With another small smile, America noted that he really should have told him earlier.

Then to Germany, he said, "Go get Italy. I'll be here when you get back."

"You're lying."

Time seemed to slow for a second. "Does it matter if I am?"

"Of course it matters!" Germany roared. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, but he didn't want to just leave the boy to die in the rain. For all he knew, America, the tawny haired, obnoxious child, was quietly crying, fully expecting to die alone.

"Italy's in danger. If you don't go to him, he could die, too. Are you really okay with staying here?" Germany stiffened. America laughed. "I didn't think so."

His heart was torn. He couldn't abandon Italy, but Italy had chosen to leave. It was America who needed his help, and yet…

America knew his decision before he'd even finished making it, and he'd accepted it. It was fine. He wasn't sad at all.

The German took a step back, and then he practiced a flawless American salute. After one final glance, he turned on his heel, and left.

Now, America was all alone.

He laid his head back in the tall grass, staring up at the sky. The smell of the Earth comforted him a little as he began to feel his consciousness slip away.

It was weird, wasn't it? He'd wanted to do so much, and he'd always thought he'd have time to do so much, but now, that time had disappeared.

Was there a Heaven for nations? Would he get to see his father and ol' Ben Franklin again? He'd really like to see some of his men, some of the soldiers who'd died serving under him, again. He'd like to thank them for all their work, and wait with them as they waited for loved ones. He wanted to keep watching over his brother, and England, and France, and even Russia.

Oh… Oh, God… he really… didn't want to die.

Not yet. Not when there were so many things he hadn't done yet.

The rain continued to fall, but his hair and clothes were already drenched, so it made no difference. Still, it reminded him of another time the rain had fallen, and then, suddenly, he remembered the face of the man who'd found him, he remembered who he'd fought with and laughed with in the past century, and why he'd wanted to protect him. It was England. Those memories he'd treasured and forgotten had all been with England. He was important because his smile was one of the world's most beautiful sights, and he'd dreaded the thought of a world without it. His temper, his bad cooking, his loving nature, these were all things he liked about England, but what he'd always liked the best was his smile.

It was almost funny how everything just seemed to be happening a little too late for it to make a difference.

A face, similar to his own, but with eyes the color of amethyst, peered over his head, shielding his face from the rain. America tried to reach out to the crying face, but his hand passed through his brother's cheek. Inwardly, he flinched, as his brother desperately tried to hold on to his hand.

He hadn't wanted anyone to see him die, but that didn't mean he wasn't grateful. In truth, he hadn't wanted to die alone.

"Please smile for me, Canada. I want to know you'll be all right before I go."

Words left Canada's lips, fast and frantic, but America couldn't hear them anymore. He waited, as Canda cried and pleaded for his brother to stay with him, then he watched as his brother's mouth shook, desperately trying to form a smile.

Even smiling, his brother still looked so pathetic. Would he really be all right without him?

Gathering the last of his strength, America wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders, and whispered, "I'm sorry I'm leaving you. I love you. Goodbye."

Then, in a burst of golden light, he was gone.


	9. Just A Child

_Germany always comes to save me when I cry… That's why… I can't cry anymore._

There's an old tale that has been passed on from mother to child, father to son, for many generations. It's said angels cry when raindrops fall, their tears water the crops and fill the seas. Therefore, if no one died, there would be no life, because the angels would have no reason to cry if everyone lived. There can be no life without pain, without loss.

However, that day, it was said it felt as though the country itself were crying. General Giovanni dismissed such silly superstitious nonsense with a shake of his head.

General Giovanni was a first generation Italian-America. His mother, a beautiful blue-eyed, dark haired beauty from Sicily, fell in love with his father, a poor fishermen. The two never should have fallen in love, but they did. When they were together, she could forget that she was supposed to marry another man, and he could forget that his brother was involved in the Mafia. Just as the pressure for her to marry and for him to bow to the Mafia reached its absolute height, they eloped. Fleeing to America with nothing but the clothes on their back.

Twenty years later, they had firmly established themselves and raised their oldest son to adulthood. Giovanni could never imagine what they went through to raise him, but he was forever grateful to them. Even as a general, he did his best to write letters to his mother and send his father money. Whether or not his proud father accepted it was not his problem.

Pride had kept his father out of the Mafia. It had helped him find a place in a foreign land with a young wife. The stubborn old man could keep his pride, but he shouldn't complain if his son took after him in that regard.

Now in his late 40's, Giovanni found that he had fallen in love with Italy. Mountains rose up behind the air base he was stationed at like great guardians. Of course, his office pretty much restricted him to a windowless, concrete box, so he didn't get to see those mountains often.

He sat at his desk in his small office, with a mountain of paperwork on either side of him, a computer in front him, and a picture of his wife and son, when his son was still cute, an arm's reach away from him. His hands should have been flitting away on the keyboard, and they would be in a few minutes, it's just that there was a storm outside the likes of which he'd never seen before in Italy, and it was so frickin' distracting.

When was lunchtime? He was hungry and all that his mini fridge had was beer he wasn't supposed to drink while he was on duty. He'd have to thank his men for that little treasure eventually. And what time was it anyway?

He'd sent the 2nd Lieutenant for coffee ten minutes ago. Lieutenant O'Brien, had huffed indignantly at the mere thought of lowering himself to the imaginary station of military busboy, but he always did that before he came back with coffee. He should have been back five minutes ago. Where was he?

Speak of the devil, O'Brien rushed into the office, sopping wet, or at least he rushed in the sense that he was fast walking, which was like panicking when it came to the normally stoic O'Brien.

Giovanni felt his heart rate speed up. Something was wrong.

"Sir!" O'Brien started, sounding agitated. "We have a general at the gates waiting for approval to enter, Sir."

Giovanni closed his laptop with a soft click. The Lieutenant, a sandy haired, slender man in his late 20's, would not have come to him with this information unless something out of the ordinary had occurred. For instance, the man at the gates claimed to be a general, but had no means to prove his claim.

"Alright, O'Brien, I'll bite. What's wrong with that?"

"I've never seen or heard of him in my life, his uniform indicates he serves the Italian Army, and he barely looks old enough to drive, Sir."

"…Are you joshing me, Lieutenant?"

"Of course, sir. Sometimes I wake up at two in the morning and think, 'Wouldn't it be awesome if I could go outside in the middle of a thunderstorm, potentially get hit by lightning, risk my military career, and get soaked to my underwear, just so I can play a prank on my superior officer' Oh, how I've dreamed of this day." He said all of that without ever failing to keep his tone formal and composed.

The general threw his hands up in a placating gesture. Obviously, O' Brien had woken up on the cranky side of the bed. "Yeah, okay, fine. Take me to the kid and remind me to ask for a new Lieutenant when we get back to my office."

As Giovanni stood to join his subordinate, O'Brien leaned on the doorway, muttering under his breath, "Please don't make promises you don't intend to keep, Sir."

A quick grin was flashed in his direction. "You love me, Lieutenant, as you should. No one else in this entire base would take your sass in stride like I do."

As they walked out the door, Giovanni felt the storm hit him like a bulldozer. It was strange that such a strong storm could have come on so fast, when it'd been clear skies only half-and-hour earlier, and they'd had to cancel a few flights as a consequence. As always, the safety of their pilots was a priority, and sending them off to fly in a whirling, thunderous, roiling mass of sickly purple clouds was not something he was willing to do. They risked their lives everyday for their country. The least he could do was make sure they knew they had someone at home who was on their side.

An umbrella would have been a good idea. He should have brought one or he should have made O'Brien get one for the two of them.

It was dark as he approached the gates. Two lamplights on either side showed him the small silhouette of a petite, slender figure guarded by two of his soldiers. As he drew closer, the silhouette began to grow features. Once he found himself merely a foot or two away from the mysterious figure, he could see that the so called "general" was only a mere boy. With hair the color of dark chocolate, eyes that glinted gold in the light of the lamps, and a limp, stray, bent curl poking out of the side of his head, he could have been a naïve college student or a boy pretending to be a soldier for some sort of initiation rite.

He sent his Lieutenant a sour look, but the man wasn't paying him any attention, both of his eyes were riveted on the stern looking boy.

With added gruffness for effect, Giovanni started,"Alright, kid, you don't know me, but I go by General Giovanni 'round these parts, and I've been part of the 31st Fighter Wing for twenty years, so I've been around the block a few hundred times. Do you think you're the first punk I've caught impersonating a soldier? This here's a serious felony, kid. I could have you locked up and the key tossed into a ditch, were I so inclined."

Something like anger flashed across the boy's face. He furrowed his brow, glaring, and said, "My name is General Vargas. I'm here to request the use of one of your fighter planes under Prime Minister Letta's orders." The skepticism in the air was palpable. Then the kid reached into his jacket, he'd done it once before so only General Giovanni showed some concern at the gesture, then handed over a crumpled sheet of paper. The general snatched it from the boy's hands, and then tried to make out the swirled script in the dim light and rain.

"Forget your glasses, General?" His Lieutenant asked with a small dose of sarcasm as he tried to surreptitiously peer over his shoulder, for no conceivable reason other than to be annoying.

"Shut up, O'Brien." In a few more minutes, the general, a man in his late 40's who had some difficulty reading even when he wasn't in a torrential downpour, made out the Prime Minister's signature.

_Enrico Letta_

The letter went as follows:

_I, Enrico Letta, as Prime Minister of the Republic of Italy, declare that the man holding this letter, Veneziano Vargas, is a certified general in the Italian military despite his young age, and that he is to be given access to all the military personnel and equipment he requests at any military base stationed on Italian soil._

_Your Prime Minister,_

_Enrico Letta_

"Let the kid in. He's either one heck of a forger or one heck of an underrated savant. Either way, I want him inside and out of the rain." The two privates shrugged, then they opened the gate with a measure of wariness. "Check him for weapons."

The boy held his arms out as they patted down his pants and jacket, his face expressionless except for the minute, panicked flickering of his eyes. One of the private's let out a small whistle as he pulled a small .45 out from under the boy's shirt. He handed it off to Lieutenant O'Brien, who proceeded to check to see if it was loaded. The gun still had five casings in it. Not only that, but the serial number on the gun suggested it had been filed to a U.S. soldier, not an Italian army general.

They didn't believe for a second that the kid was a general. They could only hope that he hadn't committed a more serious crime in his little game.

Seeing their suspicious glances, the boy stated," That's my friend's gun. I didn't steal it." Then he turned to Giovanni, who could the desperation and exhaustion etched into his young features. "General, please, I need to leave immediately. Look-" The general cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Give us some time. We still need to check your letter for forgery, maybe even call up Mr. Prime Minister, and then if everything checks out and the sky clears up, we'll let you borrow one of our F-16's."

The boy took a step away from them, his face contorted into an angry scowl, and slammed his fist against the fence. At the same time, lightning flashed across the sky. "That's not good enough, General! My friend is dying! For every minute I stand around arguing or chatting or drinking hot cocoa with you, more people will be put in harm's way. There is a threat, General, that I need to eliminate, and at this point, I am willing to take drastic measures. But I don't want to. So, please… just let me go."

O'Brien shook his head while the two privates merely waited for orders. A young kid, claiming to be a general, holding a concealed, possibly stolen weapon- none of that added up to something good. They needed to keep their eye on him. And even if he did check out, flying off in a thunderstorm was practically suicide.

Still hopeful, the boy stood tall. Chocolate eyes, the same shape and color as his son's, stared back at him with implicit trust.

Giovanni allowed himself a soft sigh. "I'm sorry, son. I just can't do that."

Then it happened. The boy's face crumpled, his hope in Giovanni extinguished, but it didn't stop there. It hardened, like molten lava into rock, his eyes took on a frenetic gleam, and then he began to run.

"Stop him!" Giovanni shouted over the howling winds. One shot rang out as the boy drew close to one of the sleek, copper-colored fighter planes. The first shot cut through his calf like a hot knife through butter, leaving a spray of blood across the concrete. Despite being injured, the boy ignored the pain, only a low, tremulous whimper letting the soldiers know that he felt it at all. Another step was taken towards the plane, and then another. Giovanni moved to restrain as another shot rang out in the night.

This one hit the boy in the back of his head, spraying his face and brain matter across the nose of the F-16 Falcon. The rain quickly went to work; washing most of the gore away in the few seconds it took the body to hit the ground.

The general spun around, furious, to see his Lieutenant still stand with his gun held out in the air. "What was that, Lieutenant? He was a child!"

"With as much respect as you are currently due, Sir," The soldier retorted as he lowered his weapon. "He was an enemy!"

"We didn't know that for sure."

"We couldn't take the chance."

For a moment, both were quiet. The two privates returned to their posts, clearly shaken by what they had witness, as their superiors leveled heated glares at each other.

Finally, Giovanni broke the silence. "O'Brien, when I get back to my office… remind me to request a transfer."

"Will do, Sir."

Giovanni watched the man he'd spent a decade working with walk back to their office building before he turned back to the kid they'd just obliterated. Kneeling down, he moved to see what damage had been done the boy's face. Upon seeing, he knew it wasn't going to be an open casket funeral. There was nothing left of his face, besides a few smattering's of flesh and a small, open-jawed mouth.

Dammit.

With a soft touch, he stroked the boy's hair away from the mess his face had become and wondered about his son. Suddenly, he felt a force knock his feet out from under him, and the unpleasant sensation of something whipping his gun out of its holster.

It shouldn't have been possible. No one could survive having their face blown off, and yet, the thing pressing his face to the wet concrete and holding his gun against his head seemed to be the boy's corpse.

"Move, General." It rasped out, pressing the gun a with a little more force against his temple, then it muttered, "…Sorry about this."

"I've never been apologized to by a corpse before." He calmly replied, as his brain worked to make sense of what was happening. "Usually, I'm the one doing the apologizing. Not sure if I like the reversal." A small chuckle, reminiscent of rusted metal, sounded over his shoulder.

The boy – corpse maneuvered into being his own little human shield. If the two privates tried to shoot him again, they'd have to go through their general's flesh and bone to do it. One of the privates ran to sound the alarm at Giovanni's muted signal. More words came from the shatter mouth behind his ear, "I'm going to let you go in five seconds. When I do, I expect you to do whatever you can… to protect the people of Italy. Do your job, General. Try to stop me. And then, when you go home tonight, tell your wife and son about the mere boy who stole a fighter plane, snatched it right out of your incompetent fingers. Try to stop me. Try and fail and then try again until I'm nothing more than a memory you recall as you lie dying in your bed, many years from now."

A memory? More like a nightmare. The general turned his head to face the bloodied mess of meat and asked, "What are you?"

The answer was simple. "I'm a monster. Now-" He pushed the general to the ground. "Run." Bullets entered the boy's back as he climbed into the cockpit. Red clouds of heated blood filled the air.

 

Flying a plane would have been difficult for a human who'd just been shot in the back of his head, but Veneziano was no human. Even as he began to turn on the engine, his eyes and nose started to regenerate. This did not mean his face and body were in good shape. He'd bled out almost a quarter of his total capacity, and his everything felt like it was on fire. He stored that information into a small compartment, saving it for later. As the plane began to move forward, red lights flash and alarms blared, waking up all of the soldiers who were resting in their barracks and driving the on duty soldiers out of their buildings.

Small pings and dings was all the damage Italy could register as he drove the plane down the sidewalk, building up speed and frightening armed soldiers as he went. Okay, so he'd rather the general had just let him borrow the plane, but stealing it was proving to be a good option. He just hoped he wasn't hitting anyone.

His stomach leapt the first time the wheels lost contact with the ground. The plane was heading towards the mountains. If all went well, he'd fly clear across them and then hide in the storm. And if all went great, he wouldn't be hit by lightning.

By car, it takes five hours to reach Switzerland. So, if he went 1,000 mph, it should only take around twenty minutes. Barely any time at all, and yet, it was twenty minutes too long.

He swallowed thickly as one of the American men barely dived out of the way. This act would have him declared a traitor, a rogue. That was fine. he just didn't want to be a murderer.

With a final, desperate pull on the throttle, the plane drew up and flew over the fence, leaving all the guns and the soldiers in its wake.

The blinking radar on the control panel dinged to let him know that two heat seeking missiles were on his tail, just as someone fired a rocket launcher.

Some people are just sore losers.

Face fully formed once more, Italy let out a whoop of pure adrenaline fueled joy. He guided the plane in a steep incline up the mountain. When they passed over it with him, he barely even gave them a second thought. Before him stretched forests, and, in a few minutes, he'd finally be free, and all his friends would finally be safe.

The plane flew straight into a cloud, then it dropped into a deep descent, Italy screaming the whole way down. Just as he was about to crash into the ground, he pulled out of the dive. Tree tops scratched against the bottom of his plain as he successfully stabilized it, but the missiles were't so lucky. They struck the ground, creating a hug plume of dirt, dust, and fire where they detonated. For a moment, Italy was afraid he'd lose control of his plane, but it was only a moment.

One more yelp and he was the ruler of his skies. The lightning struck around him, setting his blood afire.

There was no reason in the skies for him to fear or cry. And so, for the next twenty minutes, he allowed himself to forget the pain, forget the future, forget the past, and feel... like he was happy to be alive again.


	10. Better Off Dead

The last thing he remembered was his brother's watery smile, and the first thing he woke up to was a killer headache. The ground underneath his head was harder than concrete due to a lack of rainfall, and for the most part, it was barren, cracked, and lifeless.

The sound of a fire crackling a few feet away, the smell of smoke, and the soft whisper of hushed voices, speaking in a foreign tongue, roused him back into consciousness. He didn't know where he was, but he figured waking up and opening his eyes would probably be a good start when it came to finding that out.

Dust and sand coated the inside of his mouth, leaving him feeling a little dry and suffocated. Once his eyes were open, there was no longer any denying that he was in a desert.

It was night though, which was a relief. He had no water, no supplies. In the distance, he could see two bodies warming themselves by a fire. The girl seemed to be of Native American descent, wearing her ebony hair in two long braids down her back, while her brother wore his hair loose. On their shoulders, two deerskins seemed to be shielding them from the cold.

Next to them, was a small tepee, also made out of some sort of animal skin. Idly, since he was still a little out of it, he wondered where their parents were. Who left their kids alone at night in a desert?

From the back, America could see no visible sign that the boy or the girl, who was likely his sister, had passed any rights of passage. There was no weapon holstered by the boy's hip, no feather in his hair. And his sister bore no evidence of piercings or beadwork. Judging by their shape and stature, that would likely put them in the nine to twelve range.

Way too young to be alone in the wilderness. Ignoring the groan his body seemed to issue as he struggled to his feet, he set about approaching them without startling the ever-loving sh- shell life out of 'em. First, he tried shaking nearby Creosote bushes to get their attention, but neither turned to face him. They simply continued to stare into the fire as though they were too scared to look into the darkness surrounding them. Next, he tried clearing his throat. The girl's back stiffened in response, leading her brother to lay a comforting hand around her shoulders.

Starting to get a little desperate, America decided the best thing he could do was approach them.

"Hey, uh, I'm lost. Do you guys think I can sit around the fire with you? Hello?"

Their heads spun around to face him at a whip crack speed that should have ripped their necks in two, but their bodies never moved. Paralyzed with fear and too choked to scream, America stared helplessly into their maggot invested eye cavities as they stood before him. The girl's rotted mouth hung open, only a few stray tendons preventing it from falling to the ground at her feet. The creaking sound of moving, grinding bones filled the silent air as their bodies twisted and their spines realigned.

The campfire leapt onto their tent, lighting it up like a stack of dried timber. Sparks exploded and popped as America tried to gain some purchase on the ground. The closer they drew to him, the harder it became for him to breath, to move.

Some of the engorged maggots crawled out of their eye sockets, wriggling into their hair as they raised their hands towards him in tandem.

_YoU DiD tHiS_

The words didn't issue from their mouths. Nothing at all was spoken, but America could hear the words rasping, like glass cutting into his brain or nails being driven through his skull. They filled him with pain.

"I don't understand!" He managed to gasp out. "I've never wronged either of you. This- whatever happened to you- it wasn't me!"

_tHiS iS YoUr FaUlT_

"I'm telling you it wasn't me!"

The boy dropped his hand down to his side, but the girl kept her outstretched, as though she were offering to help him off the ground. As soon as America realized he could move again, the invisible chains seemingly having disappeared, he breathed a sigh of relief. Though he was still terrified of the children, pity for them and years of being relatively polite to strangers overrode his sense of terror for an instant, so he reached out and clasped her hand… only for the skin at her shoulder socket to rot and tear as he pulled. She let out a terrible screech, her rotted maw wider than any human's should have been, as the arm separated fully from her shoulder, leaving America with a decomposed child's arm in his outstretched hand. Frozen with shock, he simply stared at the child's hand as she continued to scream.

The fire from the tent leapt onto the nearest bush, but no one paid it any mind. It leapt to the next, and the next, until the night sky was filled with smoke and the never ceasing sound of screams.

 

The unforgettable scent of napalm saturated the air the next time America dared to open his eyes. He was sitting on the side of a pale dirt road. As he sat, another smell soon made itself known. The acrid smell of burning hair and flesh.

He wasn't sure was going on. First the Native American kids, now his instincts were screaming that he was back in Vietnam. Was this what happened when nations died? Did they relive their worst regrets, their greatest failures, until their minds simply ceased to function? Or did it last even longer than that?

To his right, a billowing cloud of Napalm gas, smoke and dust rolled along the road like a conscious and malevolent creature, born of violence, feeding off hatred.

The village was Trang Bang. He could tell by the black sign standing a few feet away from where he was seated. During the Vietnam War, he'd suspected that was the village was a stronghold for the Viet Cong, so the Vietnam Air Force dropped a napalm bomb on the place. And now, here he was again.

Feeling exhaustion beyond anything he'd ever known, he drew his legs up to his chest and laid his head down. Over his head, helicopters flew and, in the distance, bullets and screams of pain mixed, danced together to form some sort of hellish lullaby.

The cloud undulated, surging forwards, then backwards, along the road. Then the loud, pained wailing of a young girl forced him to raise his head.

He identified her as a Vietnamese child after she burst free from the deadly cloud. She'd torn off her clothes, and now she ran in his direction with her arms flailing about her sides. Tears streamed down her dirtied cheeks, mixing with sweat and soot as they fell.

As she ran closer, America willed himself to stay down. In a few seconds, she would pass, and he'd never have to see her again. He was tired. He'd already "helped" more than enough people, and he didn't want to "help" anymore. Let someone else tend to her. He was done.

Before he even finished thinking the words, he found himself standing and waving, trying to get the fleeing girl's attention.

He just couldn't not help her. Even if it was a trick, even if he would just be hurt or scared again, it didn't matter. She needed help. He could help. And that's why he would. It wasn't because he was a hero or a soldier or a nation. It was because… Because she was a child, and she was in pain, and because there was nothing on Earth that could stop him from helping a child in pain. That was the sort of man he'd grown to be. That was the sort of man... That was the sort of nation he was proud of being.

Of course, instead of acknowledging America and his new found resolve, the girl just streaked past him, revealing the horrific burns on her back. He ran after her, breathes coming out in shallow gasps, calling for her to stop as he tried to examine her wounds.

Her slender back bore a large burn wound. It seemed whatever fire had forced her to rip her clothes through her body had managed to burn its way through skin, what little fat she had on her, and muscle. He could see white patches where her skin had already begun to bubble and fester. The edge of her raw wound was completely surrounded by the white of her boiled skin. If someone didn't clean the wound soon, she'd probably lose her life. But first, she needed to stop running away from him.

"Benh vien!" He called out, putting to good use what little Vietnamese his scrambled brain could conjure up. "Xin thoi! Benh Vien! Giup!"

He reached out as he neared her, impulsively grabbing her shoulder. Black and flaky skin came away in his hand as she collapsed to the ground, howling in pain. On her shoulder, a raw and bloodied handprint stared back at him.

He tried to apologize, tried to explain, but he stumbled over his words and her skin wasn't coming off of his hand.

Instead of howling more, she became eerily quiet. Then she pushed against the ground, turning eyes full of pain and hatred on him. It was like she was trying to burn her way through him, make him feel her pain.

_YoU DiD tHiS_

Those words again.

He gestured to her, and then to himself. "Giup." It didn't matter if she blamed him. It didn't matter if she hated him. He would get her help if he needed to grow wings and fly to the nearest clinic.

A hand reached out to touch her, more gently this time, but she feebly tried to slap it away, only for her hand to burst into ash upon contact. Both of them watched in muted horror as the destruction traveled up her arm, eating away at her neck and torso.

All he could manage as he tried to embrace her was a whimpered, "No." In his arms, she squirmed until she screamed, and then she screamed until she had no mouth to scream with. America opened his arms to find he was holding nothing but a pile of ash.

Exhausted and broken, he refused to move from where he sat. When the cloud of smoke enveloped him, he didn't even acknowledge the sting of the smoke and the heat. He just let the tears falls into the ash.

_YoU DiD tHiS_

The sudden disturbance sent a jolt of fear down his spine. It infected the core of his being and festered there, until he mustered the courage to stare down at the pile where the girl had once been… and saw two eyes and a mouth staring back him.

They weren't attached to anything. They simply rested on top of the ash, but the hatred he'd seen in the girl before her death lingered in those eyes.

Then the mouth, cracked and bleeding, opened wide, and said...

_YoU.. DidN't.. ES..caPe_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benh vien = Hospital
> 
> Xin thoi = Please stop
> 
> Giup= Help


	11. Italian Top Gun

America hit the floor with a sickening crack, sending spidery fissures across its shining red surface. Not too long ago, the floor had been covered in crimson numbers, but overtime the numbers overlapped, colliding and melding into each other until they became indistinguishable from each other.

Without even really checking, he knew he was back in the mansion, and he knew he wasn't alone. Sure enough, the second he gathered enough strength to lift his head off the ground, he saw dozens of giant, grotesque, purple feet.

The monsters stood around him in a wide circle, as though they were waiting for something, but for some reason, America didn't feel very scared. As he struggled to his feet, ignoring the dark eyes as they watched him, all he could think was, 'Canada's so going to kill me when he finds out I'm still alive.'

How had that worked, anyway? First he'd been dying, then he'd been stuck in some sort of nightmare, and now he was back in the haunted mansion with all its ghoulish glory still intact.

America plastered a bloodthirsty grin as his face once found himself able to face them at his full, then sneered, "So, which one of you stupid bastards brought me back to life?"

Instead of speaking, they only continued to stare at him expectantly.

"That trippy nightmare was your doing, wasn't it?" America continued, trying to hide the fact that being sent back to what he had regarded for decades as his greatest failures was one of the worst things that had ever happened to him, and that, in all honesty, curling up into a ball and weeping was an activity he was quite likely to partake in, given the luxury to do so.

"Say ' YoU' if the answer's yes, "WOn't' if the answer's no, and 'EsCape' if you really want to do the Hokey Pokey." Still no answer. He'd just take the intimidating silence and hostile atmosphere as a yes.

To his increasing concern, one of his arms weighed a considerable amount more than the other. He flexed them even as made sure to keep speaking, "Or you know what? You guys could just buy a dictionary. Work on increasing that limited vocabulary of yours. I mean, three to four words? That's just sad. I'm America, so people expect me to be dumb, but you have misleadingly large and freakish heads. Being dumb is, like, a crime for things with freakishly large heads. That's why supervillains become evil, ya know? Having a large head is like a gateway crime…" He wasn't even sure what was coming out of his mouth anymore, but at least they weren't eating him.

He seemed to be stuck in the basement. It was a rather large basement, but the monsters still managed to fill almost the entire room with their bodies. Unless he suddenly sprouted wings and learned to fly, he wasn't getting out without a fight.

Still, the fact that they hadn't attacked him yet was odd. If he went with Italy's theory that he'd been cursed, and the curse had been activated when England broke his protection spell, then he could also surmise that the curse's purpose had been to weaken or kill him so that he could regenerate back into the mansion's basement. But he hadn't done that right away.

No… he wasn't entirely sure of that. It was possible that during the time it had taken him to regenerate, the monsters had implanted that nightmare into his head as a way to torment him. They were sadists of the highest order, after all. After all the time he'd spent trying to hide and kill them, America knew that they liked to play with their food before they ripped it to shreds. Destroying the mind was almost as much fun to them as destroying the body, which was why Russia had such a high resistance to them.

It's hard to break a mind that's already been broken beyond repair.

One glance at the arm steadily dragging him to the floor was enough to nearly shatter his already splintering mind. It was swollen, bulging, amd grotesquely misshapen. His arm… looked exactly like theirs.

For a moment, his head went completely blank. This was what they'd been waiting for he realized over the keeing sound in his brain, as a low growl began to emanate from the watching crowd. They'd wanted to see his horror when he realized that killing him wasn't enough, breaking him wasn't enough. They wanted to turn him into one of them.

America set his jaw, forced the room to stop spinning, then let out a booming laugh. "Haha! Man, you've overestimated my intelligence. You see, I really am as dumb as people think. That's way to dumb to let something like this stupid arm affect me. And," He broke off, a manic glint in his icy blue eyes, before continuing, "I may not be as old as Italy, or an empire like England, but I've got something going for me neither of those two can beat. Can you guess what it is?" He spat at the feet of the Steve nearest to him. "I'm way too dumb to give up."

He stood tall, proud and grinning, until the monster whose feet he'd spat at ripped his face off.

 

The ground underneath his head was harder than concrete due to a lack of rainfall, and for the most part, it was barren, cracked, and lifeless. America wanted to kiss it.

The two Native American kids sat around the campfire as they had before, but this time, he didn't dare approach them. Instead, he came up to his knees, bent until his forehead kissed the desert soil, and said, in a clear voice, "I'm sorry." The two kids stiffened. "I was immature back then. I didn't think about you guys. I only thought about moving West. I expanded and I industrialized because I wanted to grow big enough- strong enough- to protect my people. I should have realized that you were my people, too… I'm sorry I didn't protect you, and I'm sorry it took me this long to apologize. You two, and your mothers, your sisters, you fathers, your brothers, your cousins, your friends… They are all my people, too… This isn't me asking for forgiveness. I know I don't deserve it. But if my words can give you even an ounce of peace, I'll speak until my jaw falls off." He paused for a second, before sheepishly adding, "No offence."

Seconds of silence ticked by as he waited for their answer. Whatever answer he'd been expecting, giggling had not been one of them.

He raised his nose in time to catch two glowing expressions of fondness shining on their healthy faces. Their bodies were nicely tanned, lithe, and radiant in the light of their fire. Its light revealed the girl's mischievous dark eyes as they danced as well as her brother's sharp featured and grinning face.

Just as America was beginning to wonder if he'd been punk'd by two ghosts, they began to fade away. He scrambled to his feet, but they only waved, smiling as they said, "We already forgave you a long time ago."

By the time he'd reached the campfire, an older Native American woman with sad eyes had taken their place. Somehow, she seemed achingly familiar to America.

"Who are you?" He asked. Pain flashed across her face, but she quickly replaced it with a smile.

Instead of answering his question, she countered with her own, "Are you worried about those children?"

America shrugged, deciding to ignore the blatant dodge. "I shouldn't be, right? They went to Heaven, didn't they?"

The woman with her raven hair gravely shook her head as she gestured for him to sit by her on the log. "Those two are the souls of children who have wondered into the clutches of the monsters who hold you now. You see, America, a mansion is only a form their dimension takes, but it can't take many forms." America followed her glance to the tepee, his eyes widening in dawning horror. "It takes the form it thinks most likely to ensnare humans, and even after they die, the humans never get to leave… I haven't seen those children smile in ages, America. But they did tonight. For you."

A strong heat grew in his cheeks for some reason. In reply, he muttered a soft, "I didn't really do anything special. I just apologized. That's all."

She reached over, clasping his hand gently with a warm smile on her face. For the first time, he noticed that she had heterochromia. One of her eyes was blue like his, while the other was a soft shade of violet.

"That's more than you know." She looked away, chuckling to herself. "After you left, all they could talk about was how much they'd scared you. The little ones were so proud."

"Yeah, well, make sure you tell 'em they owe me a new pair of pants next time they brag about scaring me."

A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. America tilted his head to look up at the night sky. In the process, he saw a large, pure looking moon as large and perfectly round as the sun at dawn.

Long, slender arms gently wrapped around him, sending the heat in his cheeks into maximum overdrive. "I'm so happy!" She cried, her tears brushing light as rain against his flushed face as she buried her face into the collar of his jacket. "You and Canada grew up to be such good, strong boys. My brave, brave boys." She pushed herself away from him, her tearstained face and bright face still shining.

Questions burned in the back of his mind, but her intensity stole his voice from him. Still, he wanted to know who she was. And why was she so familiar?

She kept his arms firmly on his shoulders as she said, "Be not afraid, America. My son. This night will end eventually, but until then, know that I am with you. I have always been with you."

With a start, he realized he could see through her body. He groped desperately for her as she began to disappear. He sounded broken, breaking her heart as he pled in small voice, "Please don't leave."

A tingling sensation graced his forehead as she gently brushed his hair away from his battered face. The lingering sensation of her lips on his skin kept him warm long after she had faded away.

It wasn't enough to completely assuage the achingly painful wound her absence seemed to open within him, but it was something to hold on to as he struggled to move forward.

There was still another young lady he needed to see. And then he'd probably visit the Steves… in the hopes that they wouldn't rip off his face again.

…..

"Yo, Vietnam!"

As she always did in the real world, Vietnam wore a lime green ao dai, loose white pants, a broad non la, and thick sandals. Her long, flowing brown hair was kept in an elegant ponytail as she waited with him for the little girl to come running from the napalm cloud.

Turning towards him when he spoke, she gave him one of her rare smiles.

"Hello, America."

When the girl came running out, America lurched forward to help her, but Vietnam held him back. He sent her a fierce glare at her interference, but the round faced nation only motioned for him to wait. Soon, America's own men walked out of the cloud. They comforted the girl, and treated her wounds, as they whispered soft assurances of safety and warmth. Even though she couldn't understand them , the girl was obviously comforted by their gentle murmurings, since her sobs began to quiet into small, startling hiccups.

"You don't need to protect everyone to be a hero, America. You just need to try."

"I've always regretted this war, Vietnam. We both lost so much, and then I left without saving you. I abandoned you. I'm sorry."

"You tried when no one else did. I have always been grateful for that. My people have long forgiven you; it is long time you forgave yourself as well. After all…" She gestured to the soldiers as the fussed over the injured child. "That girl is still alive today because you were here."

He blinked, digesting that information, and then he broke out into an honest, beaming grin. Leaping up, he reached out and hugged her. "Thank you, Vietnam."

Vietnam was a little startled by the sudden show of affection, but she, slowly and a little hesitantly, returned the embrace. As he began to fade away, America tried to hold on to her scent. He tried to focus all his thoughts on remembering her smile, her words, and the gentle touch of the other woman he'd met.

The Steves had thought they could break him. They'd thought wrong.

Nothing can break him. Because he's a hero.

 

Italy noticed with a growing sense of dread that the raging thunderstorm stopped at the Switzerland border. It was possible, in rare cases, for a nation to influence the weather of the country they represented.

Normally, the lightning would have sent him begging for Germany's comfort. The very fact that he was instead launching an invasion (well, that's probably what Switzerland, that paranoid hermit, thought it was) showed how much being stuck in that death loop had changed him. However, his people had not been through something as traumatizing or as hardening as he had. Thank God.

Still, he was the representative of a gentle and peace loving people. That meant that his new attitude would influence them as they they tried to temper him. The dissonance his experiences had created between him and his nation was causing the violent weather. If he didn't do something, his people may find their nation becoming more militant, their economy might fall, and their job rate would probably crash. He couldn't allow them to be punished for something they held no blame for, and yet…

Italy gnashed his teeth because he knew that there was nothing he could do to change himself back to who he had been. he couldn't change back even if he wanted to.

The appearance of a Swiss Air Force squadron of F/A-18 and at least seven radar signals dragged him from his thoughts. He should have known Switzerland wouldn't believe him. He never trusted anyone.

The radio crackled and spat as Italy tried to adjust the dial to something the other planes could contact him on. Then he forced the visor over his head, which proved to be too large for him, and put on his oxygen mask. It doubled as a communicator. That meant if any of Switzerland's fighter tried to speak before they tried to shoot him out of the sky, he'd be able to fight back.

As Italy neared the border, he heard, "You are now entering Switzerland without identification or known authorization. State your name, rank, and purpose for coming here." The voice was deep. Definitely male.

Within, Italy found both sides of his plane flanked, his front blocked, his rear guarded. He looked up to find another plane flying over him, so he could only assume his bottom was being guarded as well. No doubt they wanted him to land, but he didn't have time, and he knew they wouldn't believe him even if he did.

Still, he couldn't hurt humans. Not even if they weren't his.

"My name is Feliciano Vargas. I stole this aircraft from Aviano Airbase, and I'm delivering pizza. Did anyone order a pepperoni?"

A different voice answered, "Nah. I'm more of a cheese person."

"Who asked that?" The first voice demanded. "Joker, that was you, wasn't it?"

Italy could almost picture the nonchalant shrug as the aviator called Joker, replied, "Guilty."

"Does anybody in this formation actually think he's delivering pizza?"

"Well-"

The voice that appeared to belong to the leader continued, " Just to be clear, I am shooting down anyone who answers that question with an affirmative." Nobody felt like answering after that. "Good. I'm glad we all agree that the potentially hostile F-16 in Swiss airspace is not delivering pizza."

Italy sighed. "You're right. I'm actually here to blow up a haunted mansion… Can I go now? I don't exactly have all the time in the world and dogfights aren't something I'm particularly good at."

"Dude, we've got you outnumbered 7 to 1. Calling it a dogfight's like calling a turtle a rabbit."

"… I don't think those two things are related." Italy blurted out.

One of the pilot's mental gears came to a grinding halt as he pondered whether or not his analogy was off.

Finally, the leader shouted, "Enough of this farce! We are not all friends here. Either turn back, land, or come with us for questioning. If you choose not to comply, we will be forced to shoot you from these skies. What say you?"

Forcing his features into the determined grimace that had become almost second nature to him, Italy wiped the wet hair, that still continued to grow at an alarming rate, away from his face and considered his options. At the moment, he was rejecting his country's influence. This meant he was also rejecting his connection to his people. The benefit of rejecting his connection was they couldn't be influenced by his mind set, the disadvantage was he couldn't borrow their strength to nation hop. Before, he'd managed to do it without the help of his people, but he'd almost made himself violently sick the first time, and he'd only hopped a short distance on his own land the second time.

Another option was knocking out the engines of the pilots surrounding his plane. If he did that, he ran the risk of being hit by a missile, which would leave him without a plane, and therefore, without its missiles. He needed those missiles. He had great plans for them. And all of those plans involved them, and monsters, and lots and lots of fire.

His brilliant and complex plan could not be set into motion if his plane became a giant ball of fire.

The light cough of a young girl echoed in his ears for a moment.

The leader, Italy nicknamed him Stick, sounded slightly disturbed as he asked, "Did anyone else hear a little girl's cough?"

"Nope."

"No, Sir."

A small voice murmured, "Yes."

"Shut up, Joker."

"…Um, actually I'm Liechtenstein, Switzerland's younger sister. Big Brother seemed worried so I decided to help defend him from Italy and America… Did I do something bad?"

In the skies of Switzerland, six grown men and an Italian nation are in the midst of an epic breakdown.

"Liechtenstein" Italy gritted out between gnashed teeth as he did his best to sound calm. "Does your Big Brother know you're out here?"

Silence reigned supreme for a few more excruciating seconds before she demurely answered, "No… Not really."

_Switzerland's going to kill me. He's going to pull out my intestines, roast them over a fire, and feed them to me!_

Out loud, Italy replied, "Okey Dokey, then. You have my word, Liechtenstein. I have not come here to harm your brother. I am here to save a friend of mine from the curse of a haunted mansion, and that's all. Now please, if you have even a sliver of compassion in your heart, please let me pass… Or I could just tell your brother that you purposely put yourself in harm's way, and see where that gets me."

Suddenly panicked, she cried, "Oh, please don't do that that! I-" A startled scream cut her off. Blocking in a plane can be risky if a pilot can't recognize jet trails or loses focus for even a moment. When Liechtenstein crossed Italy's jet trails, it sent her plane into a flat spin. Italy and the six other pilots watched in horror as she struggled to regain her stability, until the encroaching ground forced her to eject. Once he was sure he was safe, Italy took advantage of the distraction by slowing his plane, then diving downwards, making sure he didn't interfere with Liechtenstein's descent as he did.

Missiles followed him again from almost all directions as he pushed his plane forward. This time, he didn't have a choice in the matter. He needed to jump.

So he focused on the loss, and the smell of blood. He focused on the anger and the hate that festered inside him like a cancer.

A piano, stained in Japan's blood, and a room full of food and beds. He remembered. He concentrated all of his remaining strength on getting his plane and him over that damned house… and on not dying the second he got there.

Because that would be bad.


	12. Snapping, Spitting, Striking

The pain he felt ended up being much more than he'd anticipated. If someone had injected lighter fluid into each of his cells and then shoved a match in his mouth, it probably wouldn't have filled him with half as much agony as he felt after he finished reconfiguring himself over the old mansion. White shattered his vision, his thoughts, until he wasn't sure if he was screaming, choking, or burning. For the moment, all thoughts of rescue or revenge were reduced to little more than the ashes at the bottom of a campfire. He wasn't Italy or Feliciano or Veneziano. He was just a blind, groping mass of anguish.

The instant passed before he could crash his plane into the ground, but his sight didn't immediately return. It was like he'd burnt out his retinas staring at the sun. Still, he could feel the rapid descent in his stomach as he desperately tried to pull up. For some reason, no matter how much he swung his hand, trying to grasp the joystick, he didn't feel anything.

Amongst the lingering pain and the distinct feeling that his brain was boiling, he managed to reach out with his left hand, pull down the throttle, and pull up on the joystick. His head slammed against his neck rest as he barely made it out of the dive. Below him, the green, cut grass of the area surrounding the mansion still loomed uncomfortably close.

Once his eyesight recovered, he pulled the plane around, flying it in lazy circles around the mansion's radius. It was still as dilapidated and run down looking as it had been the first time he'd entered it. The memory stayed, bright and clear as a fresh scar in his mind.

When it didn't hurt quite so much to breath and his stomach settled, he decided it was a good time to chance a quick look at his limbs.

His toes could wiggle around just fine in his boots, so it was safe to say his feet hadn't been injured. Tentatively, he reached his right hand around his neck. To his surprise, he found he couldn't feel anything. He withdrew the hand, looked at it closely, then gasped once he saw the control panel, clear as day, through his hand. It was completely transparent.

Fighting to hold on to his composure, Italy bit back tears until he could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. If Germany were there, he'd tell him to stop. If Germany were there, he'd know what to do, what to say.

Unfortunately, Germany wasn't there. Italy had chosen to leave them behind, and he couldn't allow himself to regret it. Not when he was so close.

He rounded for one final circle, searching for humans, as he tried to cradle his now useless right hand.

A strange thought occurred to him as he observed the impeccably well-kept lawn surrounding the isolated mansion. Who mowed the lawn?

Did the monsters get out there with their lawnmowers every Sunday? Did a human do it? No. That wasn't likely. Most probably, the lawn had been cut sometime before the monsters began to reside in the mansion, then after the monsters stopped the mansion's time, the grass stopped growing.

Italy snorted; self-loathing crawled through his veins as he realized he was stalling because he was still afraid. Some part of him didn't want this part of his story to end, because once it did, he'd have to face the consequences of all that he'd done to end it. Maybe his brother would forgive him. Maybe Germany would forgive him, but his people wouldn't. There was no way they could.

Steeling his mind against his fears of the future, Italy prepped two of his air-to-air combat missiles. As the name suggested, they were meant for the air, but they would have to do, because no atom bombs or mini nuclear missiles were available for use at the moment.

"Dear God" He quickly muttered under his breath. "I've always been Your child, and I've always believed that, if I was good, I could join You in your Kingdom, but I am willing to give up my place in the Kingdom of Heaven if You will guide these missiles to their target now. I don't need to go to Heaven if my friends are safe. My paradise is with them, so please, help me protect them." He glanced at his incorporeal right hand, then added, "And please let me return to them. It doesn't matter if they're angry. They have every right to be angry. I just want to see them again." The moment he allowed England to sacrifice his life to save him passed through his mind. "Even if I don't deserve your protection, Lord… Please protect me. Amen."

With that finished, he flipped off the covers with his lips turned upturned slightly at the prospect of finally winning, turned the tip of the plane towards the sky, then soared up in a vertical line, directly above the house. Once he was high enough, he turned the plane down in an arc, driving down fast enough for the G-forces to pin his body to the seat. The black rooftop of the mansion came into view as he rushed through the clouds. He activated every missile, sending them hurtling towards, trailing clouds of white smoke like dragons, roaring, snarling, and spitting.

They collided with the house in a shower of smoke and flames, billowing up towards the sky as Italy righted his plane. A victory yelp withered and died in his throat, along with his hope. The smoke cleared to reveal that the house had emerged completely unharmed by all six of the missiles Italy had launched. And he had nothing left to throw at it.

 

It was like waking from a dream only to fall into a nightmare. America looked up to find himself surrounded by the monsters again, both arms hanging limply, two misshapen, purple clubs attached to his arm sockets. To his surprise, he found that he could move the fingers when he tried.

Some of the monsters began to hiss, growl, and salivate as he stood before them, hunched over by the weight of what they had done to him. In return, America drew back his lips, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin.

"Last time was your only freebie, uglies." He snarled, tensing the muscles in his arms as he prepared for combat. "This time, you're going to find me a little harder to kill." He swung one of his arms at the nearest monster, crushing its skull with a sickening crunch. "In fact" he continued as he licked the sweat off his upper lip. "I think you're going to find it downright impossible."

America savored the feeling of bone on flesh as his fist made contact with another one. It was about time he started repaying them for all their hospitality. A strike to the back reminded him that he was surrounded, unguarded, and too heavy to move quickly. So he tried something a little crazy. He tried to fight them like a spinning top.

Once he got his arms moving, it was easy to keep them spinning. Any monster that got too close was sent flying by the very monstrous arms they had given him. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he stopped spinning only when he felt the entire mansion begin to shake.

His feet tripped over themselves, sending him into a tangled heap on the floor. With some difficulty, he ignored the spinning room, filled with its spinning purple sadists, clambered to his feet, and entered a boxer's stance. Swaying slightly, he laughed, "Looks like Italy's here, uglies. And ya better watch out, cuz he hates people who hurt his family. And in case you've forgotten, we'll all his family. Operation: Get America Out Of The Haunted House has commenced!"

The basement trembled again, loosening some stone from the ceiling. It fell on America's blond head, and then it cracked in half, covering the stunned nation in dust and gray soot.

With an annoyed huff, he blinked away the black spots and complained, "Can't I just be allowed to look cool for like, five minutes? Is that really so much to ask for?"

Noticing the purple monsters didn't intend on answering him anytime ever, he just shrugged nonchalantly, put on a grin that nearly ripped open his face, and then charged back into the fray.

Black blood spurted across his face. Simultaneaously, something slashed at his arms and back. Even after his vision began to dark, even after their roars were reduced to an incomprehensible rush, he continued to stand, to fight without faltering.

That same grin still unnaturally plastered on his face, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "You're not gonna escape me, you bastards!"

 

"Woah, West, why are we running?" Prussia panted out the question, gasping as he tried to catch up with his mildly insane younger brother. They were moving fast down a street in Venice, and it was pouring rain. "West, we'll never catch up to Italy like this. We need to stop and think-"

Germany stopped, but he was too abrupt. Instead of coming to a graceful halt, Prussia slipped on the wet ground, sending him sliding across the street. At the very least, none of the other nations were around to witness it. That would have resulted in some serious unawesomeness. Especially if Hungary or Denmark were around.

They would relentlessly tease him and then he'd have to get back at them by relentlessly teasing Austria… It would just be a mess.

He blinked away the rain in time to see Germany standing in front of him, disheveled and panicked. "Bruder, this thunderstorm is not natural. I can sense, and I know you can, too. That tells me, somewhere, Italy is crying. And I'm not there!" Germany didn't exactly look too far from tears himself.

It'd been ages since Prussia had last seen his little brother so distraught. He'd almost forgotten how much he hated it.

 

"Bring America back. Bring America back. Bring America back. Bring him back. Bring him back Bring him back…" England sat on the roadside, chanting these words over and over as France gingerly tended to the scratches on his face and his two black eyes.

A few feet away from the obsessively chanting England and sour France, Canada and Russia were reluctantly in each other's company, sitting side by side on the wet grass. Actually, the reluctance was more on Canada's part, though Russia was still having trouble processing what America had said to him, and would have liked some time alone to think about.

Canada had thrown him his coat back when he returned, so both of them were wearing over twenty pounds worth of water of their bodies thanks to their clothes being made for snow, not rain. The atmosphere, the drawn, pale faces, all of it was too depressing for his liking. It reminded him of days gone by he'd rather not remember.

So, he tried to cheer up Canada. The attempt was motivated more by his need for a distraction than anything, but some part of him must have genuinely wanted to see the young blond smile. Unfortunately, Russia is still Russia. He leaned over, saying in warm tones, "Look on the bright side, da? No one will mistake you for America anymore. This is good, yes?"

Instead of brightening the atmosphere, Russia noticed with a sliver of nervousness that it actually got significantly darker. Cold steel touched his neck. In his peripheral vision, a furious France stalked over him. "What" he growled. "did you just say to my son, Russia?"

Canada half-heartedly gestured for France to stand down. As far as Russia was concerned, this was why he never tried to be nice to people. They always ended up just hating him more.

A potent glower still contorting his fine features, France reluctantly lowered the saber. "I'm warning you. Leave Canada alone. Usually, I'd tolerate your antics, but not today."

He returned to England's side, sagging as the adrenaline left him. Canada wiped the loose hair away from his face, and then cast Russia a calculating look. Almost too quite to be audible, he inquired, "What would you do if Ukraine died? Or Belarus?"

"Stop it!" Russia snapped, not sure why the even voice and the words made him feel so agitated.

"Would you be happy? Belarus always bothers you, eh?"

Russia growled, "Stop."

"Wouldn't it be good if she died?"

He reached to strangle Canada, to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes rolled back into his head, but just he moved forward, the saber was back at his neck. This time, the nozzle of a gun accompanied it.

"Thought you were down for the count, Angleterre."

"I'm not going to stop trying to bring back America, Frog. I'm just taking a break so I can teach this arrogant upstart a few manners." England sneered, ready to inflict some of his own pain onto another body. "It shouldn't take too long."

Just in time to stop a real fight from breaking out, a light shone over the four of them, lifting them off of the ground, and sucking them into a camouflaged space ship.

 

"He whispered in my ear that I'm the stronger of the two of us, doesn't that seem weird to you? I mean, he never talks to me like that. Yesterday, he snapped at me and told me not to lower my standards…" He slapped a hand against his forehead. " I should have known he was going to do something stupid! He always does something stupid when he starts acting serious. It's like a precursor to stupid. Or in Italy's case, it's a precursor to MORE STUPID!" The sky thundered as Romano screamed out his feelings.

Spain shivered on a near constant basis as they trudged towards Switzerland with no actual faster means of transportation. His Hawaiian shirt was not made for heavy rain, nor was it lightning retardant. Both those two facts, and their separation from the rest of the group, were putting him on edge.

If it were just Romano throwing a tantrum, he'd probably take him to a restaurant. On the one hand, it calmed him down, and on the other, he couldn't complain very well with food in his mouth.

"I should have known something was wrong, Spain. I'm his brother. How could I not?" Romano imagined his little brother was doing something reckless, and after the story America had told him, sacrificing his life was not something Romano could count on his brother to be smart enough or selfish enough not to do.

Finally, Spain decided there was nothing he could say, and just hugged his favorite little henchmen. When Tony, the red eyed, bald, and foul-mouthed alien America had befriended, transported them into his space ship, the Spaniard was still hugging his little Italian, much to the disconcertment and blatant disgust of Prussia, England, and France, who all happened to know that Spain had raised the kid.

Blushing furiously, Romano struggled out of his arms. As he did, Spain made a few mental notes.

Note #1: Remind France and England of the word 'hypocrisy'. They seem to have forgotten it.

Note #2: Buy milk.

 

There are few things that can break a spirit more than loss and exhaustion. Though many have found hope and faith can carry them through most trials, what happens when both of those are gone too?

Dark brown eyes stared, glassy and sightless, at a world they no longer wanted to see. Italy couldn't accept that he had come so far, sacrificed so much, only to lose now. If America was lost, if anyone died, then why had he bothered to come back to before they'd gone to the mansion at all? At least in the mansion he could relive the moment, bring them back, try to keep them save. Outside of the mansion, anyone he lost was gone for good… Was that really better?

He hadn't wanted this.

In his dreams, when he wasn't dreaming about monsters or death, he dreamed about picnics and trips to the beach. That was what he'd wanted. It was all he'd ever wanted. He just wanted his friends to be happy, safe, and… by his side.

Perhaps, that why God had decided not to grant his prayer. Not wanting to be alone was probably too selfish a wish. Or maybe God had forsaken him the moment he'd stepped foot in that mansion.

If Italy hadn't cut himself off from his people, that thought wouldn't have been able to take root in his heart the way it did. It felt sick inside him, but he was too tired to argue against it. Most of his energy was being expended on keeping the plane airborne.

Finally, he gave in. Italy let the gray bleakness of despair consume him from the inside out. He was alone. He was a traitor. And he was a coward.

Something as vile as him should have died in that mansion.

One tear, shining in the light of the sun, traveled down his battered cheek. He made no move to wipe it away, but even if he had… one tear was enough.

"ITALYYYYY!"

Germany's voice rang loud in his ears, nearing bursting his eye drums. Color rushed back into his surroundings as Italy moved to find some sort of plane on his radar. To his surprise, there was nothing to indicate another fighter plane was in the area. Worries about whether or not Germany had nation hopped beset him, nearly driving him back into despair.

Then an entire airliner materialized on his radar.

Romano wrenched the communicator from Germany's hands, "You idiota! If I'm so strong, then you should have come to me for help. Going off on your own like this, what were you trying to prove, Veneziano?"

Italy glanced up at the skies, his heart lurching into his throat when he saw the airliner flying above him, filled with his brother, Germany, and who knew who else. A gaping cliff had opened up before him when the mansion had proved impervious to weapons. Now, it felt like someone had reached out and pulled him back from the edge.

Still, "How are you here?" He brought the plane up closer to the head of the airliner, hoping to catch a glimpse of who was driving it. From just glancing at it, he could tell it was China's. But that didn't make any sense. "What are you guys doing here?" He screamed. "It's dangerous. Go back!"

China, who happened to be the pilot, replied, "I'm only here because my little brother asked me for help. He figured you two would be needing reinforcements after you both ran away from the meeting, so we've spent the last two days securing this plane. America's alien friend helped us get into Switzerland with his camouflage device. Also, America owes me money."

Japan added, "Tony didn't want to help us at first, but was once he heard it was for America..." He trailed off once he realized no one was listening and Romano was shouting over him.

Up in the plane, Spain and France were too busy wrapping their arms around Romano in order to prevent him from opening the doors, sticking his head out of the plane, yelling at his brother, and then sending them all crashing to their doom. "Don't tell me what to do, Veneziano! I'm your older brother. It's my job to protect you!"

"But I can't bear to lose you again!" All the tears he'd been holding back threatened to choke him as he cried. Then a terrible thought occurred to him. His voice barely reaching a whisper, he asked, "Where's America? You were supposed to be with him. Where is he now?"

Static crackled over the communicator. Dread froze his insides as he waited with bated breaths for someone to say something. Anything.

England tried to take the communicator from Romano's hands, but Italy's brother refused to hand it over. Not even Spain's nod could convince him that England, the nation who had violently attacked France the second he regained consciousness, could possibly the best person to break the news to Italy.

With as much gentleness as he could muster, Romano softly answered his brother's question, "He's gone, Veneziano. England told us after that f***** alien gathered us on his ship. I'm sorry."

In the background, a small, high pitched, almost mechanical sounding voice could be heard whimpering, "America not gone. Fuckin' limey lies. America is my friend. Not gone..."

China and Japan reacted with shock at the news, with Japan in particular being hit the hardest. It had been a long time since he'd been forced to mourn a friend.

No one had informed them of America's passing, though they had both realized that something was wrong after Tony had transported all of the nations onto the airliner and few of them made any efforts to speak, let alone bicker. In fact, they had only been told that Italy had gone to the mansion to save the young nation, so they had naturally assumed that America had been captured.

Feliciano had always managed to maintain a strong faith, even when there were times he threw his head so he could his fury out at the Heavens, he never truly stopped believing that there was a benevolent God somewhere who wanted them to get out of that mansion as much as he did… who wanted them to be happy. But now America was gone and the mansion was still standing. That meant that every prayer he'd ever spoken had been nothing but a waste of his time and oxygen.

The string connecting his brain to heart, already splintered, snapped entirely. Once it did, everything became much clearer.

If America couldn't be brought back, if the one promise he had made, the one thing he had sworn on his life to protect, was gone, then he didn't need to worry about how he was going to go home anymore. He wasn't going home.

"Romano" Italy snapped. "Pass the phone to England. I need to talk to him." There was a muffled yelling and the sound of rustling before England's voice came on the speaker.

"What do you want, Italy?," growled the Brit, sounding as exhausted as he was angry.

"I need your magic."

"What?"

"That mansion below us is filled with the things that killed America-"

England interrupted, "I'm holding you partially at fault for that. If I hadn't been paralyzed, I might have been able to do something to save him. You betrayed all of us with that little stunt of yours, and now America is dead. To be honest, I'm kind of wishing you were dead right now."

Italy hissed out a breath, choosing not to remind England that the whole reason America suffered from the curse in the first place was because the idiota had broken his own protection seal, partly because what he was saying was true, and something Italy wholeheartedly agreed with. America could have gone back. He could have kept living, been happy. Everything Italy had done was in the hopes that he would be able to eventually return to his nation, to his people, as happy and free as he had been before any of this had happened... But all of that had been for nothing, too.

"I know." He said instead, then continued, "Can two force fields cancel each other out?"

"In theory?"

"Theory is good. Fact would be better."

"In theory" England grumbled. "They can, but you won't know unless you try it out."

Italy nodded, then he remembered England couldn't see that. "Alright, I'm going to need you to cover my F-16 in the strongest forcefield you can, without injuring yourself. Ask if the others are willing to lend their energy. Steal from nature. Do whatever it takes."

"And why should I?"

"Because I'm going to avenge America. And you're going to help."


	13. Finding America

The last words he'd stabbed through America's chest replayed in Italy's head like a scratched record. He thought, 'stabbed' because that was how America had looked when he'd called him a burden. Those words had never been meant for his ears, they were never even meant to be referring to anyone but himself, and yet, he'd spoken them, shattered him, because he'd thought that was the best thing to do.

The truth was, he'd been weakened, and Italy was too afraid of losing any of his friends again to chance bringing any of them with them. Alfred had been an exception, and then he'd stopped walking. Bringing him to Switzerland, trying to steal a plane with him, nothing would have worked if Italy had tried to bring him along. It would have only gotten him killed.

That's what he thought. That's what he told himself. But wasn't he just running away again? Hurting America was the last thing he'd done, and now he was gone.

Absently, Italy lifted his visor, revealing his swollen, blood shot eyes to the sweltering air. The sun that filled the sky lit up his face, until he flinched away as though scorched, throwing a hand up like a shield as he did so.

For the first time, he wished for the blue sky to fade, for the sun to stop shining, and for all the world around him to just disappear.

No.

It would be better if all that disappeared were useless Italy.

 

Germany's ears pricked up at the sound as England shouted various expletives at the phone. Italy must've said something to set him off again.

The seat he sat on the very edge of, as he waited for his turn to talk to the rogue nation (aka his best friend), was a purple, comfy, first class treasure, and he hated every inch of its fluffy purple goodness. More than anything, he really wanted to be uncomfortable. If he couldn't be sitting next to Italy when he needed him, then he wanted to be as uncomfortable as humanly possible until he was. The thought didn't make any sense, but he felt in his heart that it was true. Outside his side window, he could see the silhouette of Italy's fighter plane, and the faintest impression of a pilot's head.

Out of impulse, he placed his large, calloused hand over the plane in his vision, hoping that somehow his friend would know that he wasn't going to be blamed or shunned if – when he came back. What Italy did was wrong; there was no denying that. Drugging them, leaving America alone, all of that had been so out of character for him, but Germany wasn't going to blame him. Or at the very least, he was going to hear him out first. The better his reasoning, the less laps he would have to run. Probably. And then, once he was done running… he would take Italy out to eat at his favorite restaurant. The one with the veranda out front, the green awning, the live band playing out front, and the rooftops that gleamed with a strings of lights. And then, when that was done, Germany would surprise him with tickets to a soccer game.

And hopefully, eventually, the brunette would begin to show him the smile he loved the most again.

That was what he wished for more than anything.

 

China was a lot of things, but a bad elder brother wasn't one of them. All Japan had to do was ask for something, and his brother would go through hell for him. Still, was an entire A320 airbus really necessary?

Thanks to the storm Italy had whipped up, it was super hot and humid at the front of the plane, exactly where they were all gathered as they waited for England to achieve contact with the little rascal via his ancient walkie talkie. The thing was bigger than his head, but Prussia guessed it finally gave them a reason to appreciate England's old man tendencies.

The alien, Tony, sat behind him. Directly behind him. Prussia could practically feel the little guy's crestfallenish face staring at the back of his neck. Before he'd heard about what happened to America, he'd been very lively. Getting in an argument with him about who was the bigger idiot was actually pretty fun, but then England had told them all what Canada had said, and now both Canada and the little grey dude were pretty much silent.

Prussia threw a concerned glance at his similarly melancholy brother just as England shrieked, "WHAAT?!", startling everyone and accidentally making Japan almost jump out of his seat. "When I said I wanted you dead, I didn't mean right now!"

After that outburst, West looked as though he was seriously going to pop a blood vessel. Honestly, worrying over Italy was going to give him gray hair, someday. And then they'd look like a pair of old men. Ugh.

"No, you're trying to kamikaze a building." England continued, responding to something Italy had said. "That's suicide and not very Italian at all! Did Japan teach you that? He did, didn't he?" Several eyes burned into the back of Japan's head, who kept his eyes faced firmly forward.

France rose from his seat, silently motioning for the walkie talkiasaurus as he did so. There wasn't a lot of time to argue, so England just passed it over to him before sinking down into a nearby seat. His hands wrapped around his head, like though he was either trying to protect it or hold it together. The French nation watched him out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, anger swelled in his chest at the action, but he pushed it aside.

"Italy" France started. "Not being able to save someone you care about… is painful, right? I know how that feels, and I know you blame yourself. Right now, you probably think you don't deserve to live anymore. You think that God has forsaken you, but that isn't true at all. Sometimes the world may seem dark, cold… merciless, but there are also times when we are rewarded, when the dark clouds pass and good things happen. Don't lose your faith, Italy. And I'm not just talking about in Him. Don't lose faith in yourself or in us. We don't want to lose you as well."

The dial on the walkie talkie was turned up so the others could hear Italy's response, "Put England back on, France."

"Sacre Bleu! What do I have to say to get through to you? Angleterre will never agree to putting you in danger, no matter what you say or how he feels about the creatures that cursed Amerique. I hate them just as he does, and just as you do, but there must be another-"

Italy's voice cut him off, "… What if I said there's a chance destroying the mansion will bring America back?" When those words reached Canada and England's ears, the blood immediately drained from their faces. "If it was those guys that made the curse, maybe killing them will stop the curse's effects. I mean, America hasn't even been replaced yet. That means he can still be brought back, doesn't it?"

The words sounded like a desperate last bid to France. He didn't even think Italy believed them, but he could also see the affect they'd had on his son and his rival. "Don't do it, Angleterre." He warned. Before he could continue, Germany abruptly stood up, startling his brother, Romano, and Spain. His hand reached imploringly for the walkie talkie, his expression resolute.

"France, let me speak to Italy." With the show of slightest hesitation, the wavy haired French nation passed the large communication device over to him. "Dank you." He spoke into the device, "Italy, are you there? Can you here me? I need to be sure you can."

Static cracked for a few agonizing seconds, before a toneless, "Yes… I can hear you," was heard. Romano moved to speak, but Spain shook his head. It was Germany's time to say what he needed to say. They could only wait and hope it would be enough.

A pink flush crept up Germany's neck, Prussia noticed with amusement, staining his cheeks as he began, "Italy" He stopped, swallowed his nervousness, then continued, his voice rough, "the first day I met you, I thought you were a useless, weak-willed coward. Then I got to know you better, and I learned that you were everything I'd pegged you as… and so much more. You were a painter and a chief and a hopeless romantic. You had dreams and you made wishes on stars. You looked at the world through the eyes of a child; something I'd never had the time or the inclination to do… until I met you. Back then, the world was painted in black and white for me, but you opened my eyes to how beautiful it could be. At first I thought that the world had always been as beautiful as the one you showed me, I just couldn't always see it, but then I realized- I realized you were the one who made it beautiful. My world shines when I'm near you. It only fades to gray when you're not by my side. That's why… When all this is over… I'd really… really like it if you always stayed by my side, Italy. And that's probably because… I love you. I've probably been in love with you since the first time I met you, it's just that it took me a whole century to realize it. And no matter what happens to me or you or to this entire world, I'm pretty sure I will always be in love with you. What I'm saying is, you don't need to come back if you don't want to. I'll follow you wherever you go, so you don't have to. And there is nothing… you can say… that will change my mind."

After Germany's heartfelt confession, Japan did a mental fist pump. He'd been waiting for Germany to confess for decades, after all. Prussia grinned broadly. It wasn't very often he got to see his brother confessing his love, blushing like a teenaged girl. As for Romano, he was practically foaming at the mouth.

"Why are you saying this?" Italy asked, his voice sounding cracked and bent, strange as it came through the speakers.

"Because it's true." Germany replied. Though he was mildly bewildered by the question, he answered it without missing a beat.

"No. That's not what I mean. What I mean is, why are you saying this now?"

Just then, France observed that England was muttering quickly under his breath. He glanced out the window at Italy's F-16, noticed the soft sheen of distorted, hardened air around it, and spun to face England, yelling for him to stop.

Once Prussia and Spain also realized what was happening, they jumped up from their seats and tried to distract him too. On the other hand, Romano and Germany hadn't quite caught on, and Russia couldn't really care less. So he just stayed seated, waiting for something fun to happen, like skydiving.

Prussia shouted over the racket, "Somebody cover this loser's mouth! Spain!"

"There are various reasons why that is a bad idea" Spain replied, glancing nervously between his white haired friend and the little wizard thrashing in their arms.

Exasperated, Prussia screamed, "Just do it!"

Predictably, Spain was bitten. He jerked his hand back with a strangled yelp, just as England elbowed France in the nose.

"My beautiful face!"

Breaking his back the last time hadn't been very fun, Russia continued to muse, happily ignoring everything that was happening around him. He figured skydiving would be more enjoyable with a parachute. Luckily, Japan and China had brought enough parachutes for all of them.

A low chuckle steadily rose in pitch until a hysterical, humorless cackle was transferred through the speakers of the walkie talkie, just as England finished completing the shield.

The butterflies still fluttering in Germany's stomach turned to spiders at the sound of the distorted laughter. As he watched, the F-16 veered away from the plain they were on. He reached out to it, willing it to turn back.

Japan left his brother at the controls so he could start passing out parachutes.

Just as they were about to slip on their backpacks, Germany leveled a fierce, murderous glower at the English nation, growling, "If anything happens to him, I will find a way to kill you. I swear it."

 

A bead of sweat rolled down the curve of America's dirt encrusted cheek. He struggled to wipe the viscous, black fluid off of his face and glasses, but all his hammy, purple fingers seemed capable of doing was smearing it around. Eventually, he decided to throw them away, exasperated that this was the second time he'd be losing Texas in the past few days.

It was almost as though someone didn't want him to be wearing glasses.

Two Steves charged him, running over the bodies of their fallen comrades as they did so. Though, calling them comrades seemed to be overestimating whatever bond they shared between them, if they shared any at all, since America had clearly seen them use the bodies of their fallen as shields.

He managed to grab the two of them by their necks, pinning them against wall with more force than was actually necessary. The solid "thunk" their heads made when they bounced off the concrete please him so much he felt it was about time he reminded himself that he wasn't just there to beat them up. First and foremost, he was stalling for time.

Although he'd said Operation: Save America had begun, he didn't actually think he was going to be saved. The other nations didn't even know he was alive. In fact, the only reason he'd mentioned being saved was so the other creatures wouldn't realize he was trying to keep them all in one room. Hopefully, if Italy or any of the other nations managed to get a solid lock on the mansion, and then land a hit on it, he'd die for the third time knowing that the grotesque creatures who'd played with him and his friends, until they'd nearly lost their minds, would die too.

But first, "Trying to control me was a big mistake." He snarled, making sure his face looked as ghoulish as possible. "Killing my friends, especially my brother, was an even bigger one, but killing kids?" A guttural growl issued from his lips, "I'll chase you all the way down to hell for that."

As though on cue, an F-16 crashed through the ceiling, collapsing the entire mansion down on their heads.

The expression on America's face as the plane's head erupted from the ceiling over his head can best be summed up thusly, "FML".

 

The air around Italy filled with smoke and fire as he struggled to regain consciousness. The last thing he clearly remembered was flying his plane into the mansion, and that explained his splitting headache quite nicely.

Debris burned both inside and outside the cockpit. A quick glance at his hands revealed he'd lost the tips of some of his fingers during the impact. Broken bones protruded in some places, his skin was already burned to a blackened or scraped away entirely in others.

The F-16's glass pane had shattered inwards, further slicing his already damaged body, and the fuselage compacted due to colliding with the concrete. Also, the plane's right wing had been torn off during the crash, but the left wing still hung on.

Over all, being surrounded by heat and warped metal made Italy think for a moment that he was going to die in a microwave, and therefore, would know how it felt to be a pizza.

As he prepared to die, having finally accomplished his goal- there was too much flame and debris for him to see any of the creatures, but he was sure even they couldn't survive a fuel explosion, a collapsed mansion, and a fire- memories began to flood back into his brain.

Grandpa Rome was the one who'd taken him in and taught him how to paint, how to sing, how to dance, and pick up girls. He was energetic and childish, but he loved his grandson, and it had felt good to be loved.

Italy smiled at the memory of being tucked into bed at night by warm, gentle hands.

Another memory followed that one, this one of a young boy. In it, the young boy asked Italy to rebuild the Roman Empire with him.

That was when Italy remembered that he couldn't die yet. He'd made a promise to Grandpa Rome and he'd promised to wait for Holy Rome to come back. Until one or both of those happened, he couldn't afford to die.

"I changed my mind!" He screamed. "I don't want to die." He struggled to pull himself out from behind the warped, twisted metal of the control panel. There weren't any mirrors around, but the damage around him and his hands suggested he wasn't going to be called cute again any time soon.

Suddenly, giant purple hands wrapped around the door to the cockpit, wrenching the door off its hinges as though it were as easy as opening a tuna can. Italy mused on all the things a Steve (America's name, not his) would do to him, and flatly muttered, "I changed my mind again. Fire's good. In fact, I think I'll just stay here".

The metal door groaned as it was torn away from the cockpit, revealing… America?

"Yo, Atomosphere Searching Buddy" the young nation said with a bloody, shark toothed grin. "Nice of you to drop in."


	14. They're Popping Up Like Daisies

The smile died on America's face once he saw how unresponsive Italy seemed to be. Careful not to hurt him, America began to pull the air mask and helmet off of his slender face. As he did so, Italy, his voice harsh and shrill, elicited an anguished shriek that rent through the thick air like a chainsaw.

Startled, the young nation fumbled the helmet, turning it around, only to see pieces of flesh and blood seared to its sides.

"Feliciano, I'm sorry." He babbled, near tears. "I didn't mean to." The flames and smoke encroached ever closer as he strove to unpin Italy from the wreckage. Even after he'd pushed it far enough back for the injured brunette to leap out of the debris, he still didn't move an inch.

"Italy!" America begged. "I know you're scared of me, and my sharp teeth, and my really weird looking arms." He waved them up and down for emphasis. "To be honest, I'm a little scared of all that, too. I don't know what I'm becoming…" His eyes widened with alarm when he saw Italy's right sleeve catch fire. "But right now, you really need to leave that wreck. I'll save you. I swear to God I'll get you out of here and then I'll never hurt you again. I'll plead, I'll beg, I'll get on my kneels if I have to. I'll do anything! Just trust-"

Italy leapt out of the plane, just as its interior began to collapse, and into America's arms, embracing him, burying his head into the young nation's broad shoulders as he managed to rasp out, "You're alive! I'm so happy, America. You're alive!"

While doing his best to shield Italy's trembling body from the heat of the fire with his own, America looked down at the nation sobbing in his arms with a soft smile on his face, and said, "Yeah. You too, Italy. I'm really happy you're alive."

His tone changed only slightly when he looked up and added, "Now, let's get out of here."

 

Billowing black clouds rose from the fiery remains of the mansion, towering ever higher with each passing second. The wave of heat generated by the explosion shook the plane as the various nations struggled to outfit themselves with their parachutes.

Germany had tried to rush out the hanger door the second Italy's F-16 penetrated the mansion's shield. Through England's eyes, it had looked similar to a pen punching through a piece of paper, just louder and quite a bit more violent. But Germany didn't have the Sight like England did. All he saw was his best friend's plane crashing, being enveloped in flame and smoke until its tail disappeared from his sight. For all he knew, Italy could be hurt or in pain, and there was no way he could just sit around helplessly hoping for his safety.

Seeing Germany's desire to break the seal, Prussia gripped him around the waste, whispering, "West! Italy's all right. He's fine. We'll be down there in a minute, just calm down."

Having finally finished depressurizing the cabin and lowered the landing gear in order to disengage the additional security locks on the doors, Japan rushed to unseal the hanger door. At 7,000 feet, the plane was a little higher then he'd wanted them to drop, but if they waited too long, the heat rising from the wreckage could burn up their parachutes. Or worse. The fire was spitting flaming projectiles the same way a volcanic eruption would. If any of those touched a parachute, it'd burn a hole right through the material, and that would be bad enough by itself without the added bonus of likely setting the chute on fire.

"All right" He shouted over the wind. "I need you all to pull your chord after you count to ten. Do your best to stay as far away from the smoke as possible. If you get too close, the heat and burning debris could either make it difficult for you to land or much, much easier. And faster."

"Then why don't we do that?" Romano demanded.

"Because that would mean falling and breaking your bones." Japan replied, his voice betraying the slightest undercurrent of irritation and impatience. "Any other questions?" He stared them down as if daring them to stall him further. "No? Good." Quickly, he asked Tony to take control of the flight. "We need you to camouflage this plane and take it back to brother's home. Do you think you can do that?"

The little gray alien stepped up to take the reins from China, "Bitch, I might be." While not entirely sure if that was an affirmative or a refusal, Japan decided, for the sake of time, to simply take it as a yes. China raised an eyebrow at the exchange, to which his younger brother could only shrug in reply.

It was an American alien. What did he want from him?

While still clearly dubious about the alien's ability to fly his plane, the long-haired man with the ponytail reluctantly relinquished the controls. Japan scooped his brother, who squawked in protest, into his arms bridal style, and then promised Tony with a resolute expression on his young face, "I'll bring America back to you. I swear it."

Tony nodded, then added, " Bitch, you better."

After Japan jumped out, his brother's screams could be heard for a good half a minute. Germany leapt out next, followed by Romano, Spain, and Prussia.

Hesitantly, Canada wavered at the exit. Thousands of feet, filled with searing air, black clouds of smoke, and raging fire yawned before him like some sort of portal into an incineration chamber. However, if Italy really had brought America back by breaking the curse, he needed to jump. Just as he was about to turn around with a question on his lips, a hard kick to the back sent him flailing and spiraling into empty air. Immediately, without even needing to turn around, he knew who'd kicked him.

"Russia" He screamed as the rushing hot air filled his mouth and the wind swept away his words. "I HATE YOU SO MUCH!" Those were the first words he'd spoken since he'd told England about America's disappearance.

Back in the plane, the Russian nation chuckled while England and France looked on with disapproval.

"That was uncalled for, Russia." England said, reproachfully.

France added, "I agree. What has my dear Canada ever done to you?"

There wasn't any need for Russia to answer them, but he did anyway. "If America is truly gone, then Canada will need to take his place. For that, he needs to be made strong."

His words angered France, who didn't believe that Canada should be forced to replace his brother. They were two, very different siblings who were both special in their own ways. No one had any right to force Canada to be anything like his more boisterous brother when he was already perfect the way he was.

"And you think you can make him strong?," demanded England.

In response, Russia shrugged nonchalantly. With what could almost be described as a sad expression on his face, he said, "In my experience, hate is a very strong motivator. If he hates me, he will become strong." Then he leapt out- "VOOODKAAAA!"

France turned to England, saying, "My son is already strong. He doesn't need to be America's replacement."

"And he won't be, France." England replied, with much more gentleness than France had ever expected from him. Then he added, "Let's go."

The two jumped from the plane, and were promptly reminded that skydiving is hardly ever a pleasant experience.

 

The first full glimpse of the mansion's wreckage took England's breath away. Souls, human souls, raced out of the fire, spreading out into the sky like fireworks. To his eyes, they were blue orb-like sprites similar to the will-o-wisps of his older brother's legends. They spun and danced in the open sky, as though intoxicated on their newfound freedom.

This more than anything proved that America had been telling the truth. Only a very powerful, very malevolent force could keep humans souls captive.

Two orbs bobbed and weaved in front of his face, as though they were trying to communicate with him.

So transfixed was he by the spirits, he almost forgot to pull his cord. Luckily, France kicked him upside the head. Even if the French nation was still angered by England's decision to allow Italy to put himself in danger, he still didn't feel like passing up a chance to kick him upside the head.

Similarly, Germany needed Prussia to pull his chord for him, "Come on, West! Now is not the time to fall apart," though that was more because he was too worried about Italy to focus properly. Only England could see the spirits.

Their stomachs lurched as their parachutes unfurled behind them. The resulting drag slowed their descent considerably. A little too much, actually.

"Sorry, bruder." Germany apologized with a hint of sheepishness. "I was beginning to let my emotions get the better of me. It won't happen again."

"It's not that letting your emotions get the best of you is a bad thing, it's that there's a time and a place for it. And that time is not after you jump out of a plane. Understand, West?"

"Ja. From now on, I will only think rationally." Germany pulled out his gun out of his holster then proceeded to shoot his parachute full of holes.

Prussia freaked out, flailing his arms around like a chicken with its head cut off. His Hawaiian shirt surged around his body as he shrieked, "On what planet would that be considered a rational decision?!"

More shots rang out, followed by Spain's panicked thrashing as Romano's descent sped up to match Germany's.

Three sets of glaring eyes stared back at Prussia when he looked up.

"This is your fault." England and France both said, sparing a glare for each other after they said it. Spain vehemently nodded his agreement, all while keeping an eye on the two blond nations near him.

Not nearly as indignant as he pretended to be, Prussia replied, "How is this my fault?"

"He gets all his recklessness from you."

"And now he's infecting Romano!" Spain interjected as he swung back and forth on his ropes, hoping to keep the banter going long enough to distract both France and England from the tension between them.

"My bruder is not a disease! Therefore, it is not an infection… It's an improvement."

This statement triggered further argument, which was exactly what both he and Spain had hoped for.

Neither of the Asian nations offered their input, but both of them allowed it to continue, since a lighthearted argument can sometimes mean the difference between falling into a pit of despair and climbing out of it. The point was: You can't have an argument if you're alone. So, if you're bickering or yelling or trading insults, know that means you're not alone.

 

Unlike the other Western nations, who had grown lax in their years of peace, Switzerland refused to wear anything other than his forest green military uniform. Italy's most recent threat only proved that he was right to do so.

Still, though he hadn't really expected anything truly threatening from the Italian nation, he had sent a six-man squad to give him a dose of aggressive hospitality on his behalf. The only reason he hadn't gone himself was because he'd promised Lichtenstein he'd have lunch with her that day.

This being the case, he waited outside his large house for her to arrive at one, just as they had promised to. At five minutes past one, he began to sweat. At ten minutes past one, he ran into the house, calling her name as he checked every room.

Finally, fifteen minutes had passed, and he was ready to leave the house with his shotgun. Just as he was about to step out, his black phone, the only direct line to his military, began to ring.

Dread pooled in his stomach as he slowly approached the pedestal he placed the phone on, and answered, "This is Commander Zwingli speaking. State your business."

"Well, Sir, we've got a major problem." A voice with a distinctly military cadence replied. "Seems a little girl snuck into our squad... and she thinks she's a country. Also, the F-16 that crossed our borders pulled a disappearing act on us. Better alert the other squads, Sir."

The voice sounded like it belonged to one of the pilots he'd sent to patrol the border. What he was saying matched up pretty well with what a human would say if they encountered a nation, but Italy's whereabouts were of minimal importance at the moment.

"The little girl… Doe she have green eyes, blond hair, and a blue ribbon in her hair?"

"Yep." The pilot replied. "That's exactly what she looks like. Sounds to me like you know her. She your crazy sister or something?"

Choosing to ignore his question for the time being, Switzerland continued, "Is she all right? Has anything happened to her?"

"Ah, she got a little banged up after she ejected from her plane. The trees gave her a few scratches here and there, maybe a bruise or two, but nothing major. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if we should take her to the hospital or take her to her home, wherever that is."

Switzerland drummed his fingers with increasing agitation.

"Her real name is Lili Vogel. She's my adopted sister." He quickly added the last bit before he had to answer for why they didn't share the same last name. "She'll tell you herself if you tell her you contacted me. Now, I ask that you and your men kindly escort her back to my house. Just in case I'm not here when you arrive, I'll leave my doors unlocked. However, before I go, I'd like you to answer this last question for me: Was it the intruder who downed her?"

"Downed? No, Sir. The enemy pilot didn't seem much inclined to hurt us. The only reason she needed to eject was because she got caught up in a jet stream. Speaking of pilots and jets and streams, any chance we can recruit her-"

Before the man could finish his sentence, Switzerland slammed the phone down on its receiver, cutting the pilot off, and likely saving his life.

After staring at the cellphone in his hand for a good minute, the pilot wisely decided it would be detrimental to his health to ask that question again. Even if his gut told him she would be a serious hottie in a few years, his head was an essential part of his body, and he very much preferred that body with its head attached and without lead in it.

Thank you very much.

 

Once all the nations had their feet planted firmly on solid ground, it became clear that the old mansion had gone up like a box of matches. There was going to be no searching for Italy until the flames died down.

Unfortunately, Germany seemed to have missed the memo on that, because once the others got their bearings, it became clear that Romano tackling the German nation to the ground was the only thing preventing him from running into the searing smoke and flames with his shirt pressed on his mouth.

"Idiot! If I let you run in there, Veneziano will never forgive me. Not after what happened to America…" None of his words seemed to be reaching the German nation, who dauntlessly continued his struggle to free himself without hurting Romano. "You." Romano banged Germany's head against the ground in an attempt knock him out. "Are. Staying." One hard punch on the jaw was all he had time to do before Prussia and Spain managed to pry him off. "Here!" Once Prussia released Romano's arm so he could rush to make sure his brother was okay, Romano haltingly continued, pausing every now and then as he tried to replenish the oxygen levels he'd wasted on Germany by sucking the hot air into his lungs, "I'm Veneziano's brother, you no good potato eater. Do you really think I would be out here if I thought there was even a chance that running into that fire would help me save him? You go in there now, and you'll just get hurt, and that will make my brother cry. I know I don't want that. Do you?"

As Germany gingerly pulled himself into a sitting position, he heard his brother say, "He's right, West. Just wait, we'll figure something out. And if you can't trust us, then trust Italy. Now that you've confessed your undying devotion to him, he'd never just leave you without replying. He's just not that kind of guy, ya know?"

There was a deep darkness in Germany's mind that continued to weigh on him. It swelled and shrunk as rhythmically as the heart that beat strongly in his chest. And yet, his brother and Romano were right. He needed to trust that Italy wouldn't put them through what he'd apparently gone through so many times before, and that the brunette wouldn't leave before telling him if he loved him, too.

If it was only for a little while, he could do that.

Italy had once waited for him.

He could wait, too.

 

The heat by the remains of the mansion wasn't unbearable, but it wasn't something Russia was much enjoying either. His scarf and long tan coat were doing a great job of frying him like a piece of smoked bacon. If that was their intention, he supposed it was only right that he mentally congratulated his articles of clothing on a job well done.

_Well done, clothes. I feel like fried pig._

For the most part, France and China mainly stayed on the sidelines, alternating between watching the others argue and the blaze, with one wearing a look of mild concern and the other wearing a look of complete indifference. At least until China groaned, "We are going nowhere as long as we remain flammable. Me, especially. I'm very flammable. Still, if General Winter were here, this flame would be doused in seconds. Then all we'd have to do is search for Italy, and none of us would have to risk burning alive. Wouldn't that be nice?" He noticed the shocked expressions on the nations around him, and asked, "What? What did I say?"

"He's right" England shouted, then rounded on Russia. "Can you call General Winter here?"

"Da, I can" Russia scratched his neck, betraying the slightest amount of unease, "But Switzerland won't like it."

With a dismissive jerk of his hand, England replied, "He's already going bestow upon us the worst punishment imaginable if he finds out we've crossed his borders. The least we can do is earn it."

After that optimistic little pep talk, Russia did feel slightly better about calling General Winter.

Dark storm clouds formed over the mansion's burning carcass, blocking out the sun with their dense, roiling masses. A large grin on his face, Russia continued to open his arms wide as though to embracing the sky as he called out for snow and ice, enough to put out a flame.

In the storm clouds, a man with a ragged cape, a sharp face, and a neatly trimmed mustache began to form. With him, came the buckets of fire dousing snow they'd been hoping for.

By the time he was done, only five minutes had passed, and the mansion's burning carcass had been reduced to nothing more than a collection of soggy, blackened, and slightly smoldering wood chips.

Russia sincerely thanked him for coming as the clouds began to dissipate, allowing the sun to shine and melt the snow General Winter had literally just made.

This was why the General liked the land of ice and snow so much more than any of other nations, with the possible exception of Canada, who he waved at, much to the bespectacled boy's horror. In Russia, the snow hardly ever melted, and even if it did, it never left the hearts and minds of the Russian people. To them, he was more than just a season. He was their greatest foe and their fiercest ally. That was why he loved Russia more than any other nation, and why Russia feared him almost as much as he admired his strength.

As the others readied their weapons, weary of the monsters America had spoken of, Canada trudged on ahead. The land before him reeked of bitter winter and fire and the ashen remains of beams and furniture crackled and crunched underfoot as he began to rummage through the heavy layer of snow and ice for something he could grab ahold of.

There were still thick, low hanging clouds shielding them from the sun despite the exit of General Winter. A murder of crows sped over their heads as a low howl sang through the tops of the trees that surrounded them. The wind didn't seem to be heading in a particular direction, rather it seemed to be blowing inwards as though it bore them ill will for some grievance they had committed.

Russia decided to voice what the others were thinking, "It would seem Switzerland knows we're here now, and he knows where we are."

"There's no way he could know we're here," replied England. "What's more likely is he knows Italy and you are here. Therefore, we just have to find him and leave before he tries to shoot us."

"Easier said than done," Romano groaned, veins bulging as he managed to lift and toss a large piece of tiled roof.

A massive shadow loomed behind Canada's back, towering over him before he even had time to notice, until a spray of black fluid painted the side of his face. Trembling with fear, he turned to see a grotesque, discolored creature collapse to the ground, a halberd lodged in its neck. Now standing where the creature once stood, Spain stared down at the beast, his green eyes practically glowing with rage.

"Stay alert. We can't afford anymore delays." He shot at Canada, then he proceeded to violently yank his glittering weapon from the corpse of the fallen monster and move on to search someplace else.

Another one charged at Romano a few minutes later, only for Russia to beat it to death with his 'magic stick'.

"It's not a stick!" South Italy shouted. "It's a pipe. You're not fooling anyone!"

"Da, but I save you, yes? Now you must become one with Russia."

The color left Romano's face, running away to someplace farther away from Russia most likely. However, it really didn't have to. Spain strode over, gave Russia his friendliest smile, and said, "It would be prudent of you not to say such suggestive things when your Winter isn't around, mi amigo. You might get hurt."

 

As America struggled to keep digging up, he could feel Italy's labored breathing on his neck. In the few short minutes since he'd gotten Italy out if the burning F-16, his wounds had already begin to heal, but internal injuries, like burns from inhaling smoke, often took longer to fully recover.

With one arm, he managed to push aside 75% of a couch. Even if he didn't necessarily like what'd been done to him, he couldn't deny there were perks. One of his teeth caught on his gums, shredding it some more as he struggled to keep moving. On the other hand, he though, having normal teeth again, instead of a freakin' cheese grater in his gums, would be nice.

Every now and then, he would shake Italy a little, trying to keep him conscious. Making him talk would only damage his throat more, so instead of that, he tried to talk about flying and see their friends. He talked about some of his favorite memories, his favorite sports, and what games he liked to play with Japan.

There was no guarantee he'd ever be able to go back to a life of he'd once had, not with him looking like some sort of Frankenstein's monster, but he had to make Italy believe that both of them could go back. He had to believe things would go back to normal, because if he didn't, his wounds might not heal. They might even get worse.

After pushing some planks and a curtain out of his path, America smelled the bitter chill of a Russia winter. Fresh air was streaming in through the cracks above him, ridding his nostrils of the acrid smoke he'd been struggling to ignore.

"Italy!" He called, jostling the nation resting over his shoulder slightly. "We're here. We finally made it!"

His disfigured hand reached out to clear their path to freedom, and then-

 

Russia spotted a purple hand poking out from the snow, so he took his magic stick and bashed it... repeatedly.


	15. Dancing In The Dark

The silver-haired pipe wielder did his best to step back when a monstrous, black-eyed head emerged from the snow, roaring a challenge as it rose. As fast as he tried to move, it wasn't fast enough to escape the arm that shot out, clamping around his head like a vise and lifting him off the ground as though he weighed no more than a pillow.

The creature opened its maw until it appeared unhinged, revealing three rows of jagged teeth and the black hole that must have passed for its gullet.

Kicking his legs fiercely, Russia fought to free himself, just as two other nations unexpectedly rushed to his aid.

A saber, skillfully wielded by its master, pierced one of the monster's black eyes, temporarily throwing it off balance. Simultaneously, Japan flipped onto the monsters shoulders, driving his katana through the monster's skull until all but the very hilt of the blade was embedded in its brain.

In the end, Russia stood, shocked but unharmed, as both France and Japan heaved at the exertion. Even if they were allies, he couldn't believe they had actually gone out of their way to save him.

A slightly hesitant, but unmistakably American voice rang out from a few feet behind them, "Hey, you guys weren't planning on doing that to me, right?"

All combatants turned towards the voice, and upon doing so, saw a head full of sweaty, limp hair, grayed by the ash and slush, sticking out of the debris alongside two bulging and discolored arms. They appeared to be grafted to the boy's shoulder blades, and the more the boy flailed them in his attempt to find enough purchase to pull himself out of the wrecked remains of the mansion fully, the more he looked almost pitifully silly.

To Russia, the flailing American looked like a flower with two petals... or a very big pimple. You could say he was divided on the matter. He refastened his grip on his magic stick and said, "We could still do that to you if you feel left out." Looking at the deformed nation before him, he couldn't completely leave out the possibility that he would eventually turn on them, forcing them to put him down. From the expressions he could see on his European and Asian comrades, he could tell they were thinking the same thing.

Even if America didn't turn on them, he could not be considered a proper representation of his people if his body had been tainted so. It would probably be better to erase him, thereby allowing a new land of the free to be born in his place.

So distracted were they by America's disfigurement, they almost didn't notice the slender body clambering down from his shoulders. Half way down, it fell onto its side in the snow, coughing and hacking, heaving up empty air as though rejecting the soot that must have filled its lungs.

Romano screamed out the second he recognized his brother. "Veneziano!"

"Italy!"

Again, Germany felt strong arms prevent him from moving forward. He looked over his shoulder to see Prussia gazing uncertainly at America's figure and cursed him profusely for his cowardice.

A little ways away, Spain was also preventing Italy's brother from getting too close to a nation who bore more than a passing resemblance to the monsters that had just tried to eviscerate them.

America glanced around frantically as Italy struggled to his feet. "Isn't anyone going to help him?" He yelled, revealing his ragged teeth as he did. "He needs treatment. I don't care if you guys leave me, I'll get out on my own, but Italy's hurt." Hurt blurred his vision as he continued to beg for someone, anyone to help the one who had collapsed an entire building on him just to try and save him.

Once Italy made it to his feet, he positioned himself directly in front of America. They could all see the raw, angry looking wounds on both of his cheeks, the gashes in his tan uniform, and a deep, blackened wound that reached all the way from his hand to his shoulder blade. It didn't take a heightened sense of smell to catch the scent of burned meat that seemed to waft from him. Still, despite the pain that should as been crippling, he managed to level a heavy scowl at all of them, "Don't hurt him" before turning around to try and help the blond-haired nation behind him from out of the hole he was stuck in.

"America, what happened to you?" asked England, feeling dazed.

The incapacitated nation looked reluctant to answer, his eyes were downcast when Italy began to speak in his place, grinding the words out as he weakly yanked on America's arms, "What does it matter, England? France? Japan? What does it matter what happened to him or what he looks like? He's alive." Voice breaking, he added, "Isn't that all that should matter to you guys?"

No one noticed Canada pulling at America's other arm until he was already there. Italy gave him a grateful smile, and together they managed to pull America to his feet.

Softly, but firmly, Canada called out, "This here is my brother. I'd recognize him anywhere, and anyone who tries to tell me otherwise will be treated as a threat to North America as a whole." Light, lavender eyes flashed red. "You may not think I'm serious, but it would be best not to test me. After all, my best friend's a polar bear."

Then he turned on America, who groaned since he'd known this was coming the second he'd realized he wasn't dead. "And you, how could you make me think you were dying?"

"I was dying- I did die. Twice! I just seemed to have a lot of trouble staying dead."

Feeling ashamed, Japan sheathed his katana, and France, his saber. Russia dismissed his magic stick (not a pipe) for the time being, and Prussia shared a meaningful nod with Spain. Simultaneously, they released their charges, who raced to Italy's side the very instant they were free, though Romano made sure to kick Spain as well as threaten that he wouldn't get off so easily if he ever pulled a stunt like that again. Considering Prussia also received a black eye, saying they ran the very instant they were released may have been a bit of an exaggeration.

"My brother looks like road kill." Romano fussed while Italy was too tired to snap back a pithy remark. "Why aren't his wounds healing?"

The Italian brother winced visibly when America merely shrugged his shoulders. This did not go unnoticed. "I don't know why he isn't healing. It may have something to do with this house, but if it does, I'm not sure what more we can do to destroy it."

"Maybe it's not the house," Canada mused out loud. "But the monsters."

All eyes turned to him for clarification. Nervous, he cleared his throat, "I mean, what if it's the monsters that are maintaining the curse or whatever it is that's affecting America? That means it won't go away until all of them are dead, right?"

"How many of them are left?" England asked, already planning the various ways he was going to take them out.

While sweeping some of his soaked hair away from his eyes, America pondered on his answer. "A lot of them should have died in the basement, but there may have been a few of them still wandering around the mansion when the plane came down." Three corpses told him he didn't need to ask how many Steves they'd killed.

While the others talked about how they would find the remaining creatures, Italy managed to slip away from Germany and Romano. He staggered towards the tunnel America's efforts to reach the surface had left behind. The light only reached a few feet down, but it was possible, though not probable, that it reached all the way down to the basement.

All of the monsters were supposed to be dead, but if they were all dead, then Canada was wrong, and they were out of ideas on how to turn America back. If they weren't all dead, then the nightmare wasn't over.

The ground shifted subtly beneath his feet, just as a purple blur shot out of the dark.

A strangled cry ripped through the air, sending a cold shiver down America's spine as he spun around to see a bloodied Steve holding Italy in a strangehold. Compared to the arms choking him, Italy's neck looked like a twig that could break at any moment.

As Italy desperately tried to claw at the arms that held him, his eyes widening with terror as the monster's gaping maw began to descent over his head, America rushed forward, a red haze filling his thoughts. Once he managed to tear Italy away from the monster, he grabbed the creature around its shoulders, chewing its neck out with his teeth as the others looked on, horrified.

By the time America was done, a flap of skin connecting the monster's head to its neck was all that was preventing it from being a full decapitation. His hands shook as his reason returned. Canada and Italy stayed by his side as he wept and retched into the blackened snow. They held onto him so he would know he wasn't alone, and as they did, England joined them, followed by France, Japan, and, grudgingly, Germany, Romano, Prussia, and Spain.

"It's all right, Amerique. We're all here now."

England added, "To be honest, I think this new look suits you." France leveled a potent glare at him, so he cleared his throat, continuing, "What I mean to say is, it doesn't change anything. You've always been strong, and an idiot. But seeing as you've just saved Italy, I can confidently say that, other than your appearance, nothing about you has changed. You're still the same irksome and heroic idiot I've known for four-hundred years. I raised you. You're important to me as well, so please don't scare us by disappearing again anytime soon."

As these words were spoken, he placed his hand on America's back, rubbing his palm up and down the way he would whenever his charge used to wake up from a nightmare. Slowly, America's arms began to change back. In front of their eyes, the bulging, discolored arms faded to a very human shade of pink, and his muscles shrunk down to their usual proportions.

Italy shook him. "America, look at yourself. You're back to normal. Isn't that great?"

Haltingly, America lowered his hands from his face, letting out a yelp of pure ecstasy once he saw that he really did have his own arms back. He wrapped his perfectly not-purple arms around his brother and Italy, embracing him while baring his flat teeth in a wide grin, which would have been less disturbing without the blood and flesh that was still stuck in them. It'd been a very long time since he'd felt as blissfully happy as he did then.

A kick to the shin and few choice words from Romano reminded him that Italy was still injured. He apologized profusely after he released Italy from his enthusiastic embrace, but the Italian just laughed it off.

It was suspicious that Italy wasn't healing, but because Italy only grimaced when he was sure no one was looking, no one really thought to make a big deal of it. They all just assumed that he would heal eventually.

In his head, Germany was making a catalogue of all the bandages and various disinfectants he'd need to help him.

He tried to touch his right arm, but Italy pulled away from him, a look of pure terror on plastered on his face. Germany couldn't understand why that expression would be directed at him. Neither could Romano or America, who'd been keeping an eye on Italy even as they interacted with the others.

America gently ruffled Italy's hair in an effort to ease the tension."Don't worry, little buddy." He said with as much cheer he could muster. "After you go home, Germany will get you all patched up, and then we can all have a party at my place. We'll consider today our second Independence Day."

In response, Italy tried out a tired grin, but found that he just couldn't get his face to cooperate. "I can't go home, America."

An Italian wolf appeared at the edge of the forest the group was walking towards, drawing the attention away from Italy's words and onto itself. The grey fur on its cheeks gave it the appearance of a mane, its dark, black rimmed eyes stared at them intensely, as they all noticed the child hanging from its tawny muzzle.

Just to be certain, England asked if everybody else was also seeing a wolf carrying a child in its mouth. They did.

Even so, when Russia volunteered to kill the wolf, both Italy and Romano shouted him down. Their national animal would not attack them, plus, the child he bore in his muscle wore a golden cross around its neck, a white gown, and it had a long curl of brown extending from the side of its head. In other words, it looked just like they had when they were born.

As the wolf trotted closer, the child bounced and wiggled in its mouth, giggling every time the wolf leapt over a hole or stumbled over an uneven patch of dirt. It halted by the grass, not wishing to step onto the wood, so Italy and his brother ran to meet with it, the others not far behind.

Seeing them, the wolf decided its job was complete, gently dropped the child, and turned to run back into the forest.

The child sitting in a heap of cloth before them, round faced and flushed, could have been more than two years old in human years. She stood up, muttering softly to herself as she did so, brushed herself off and then gave them a sparkling smile. "Hello, fratellos. I'm your sorella, North Italy, but you can call me Felicia if you like. I like it because it reminds me of flowers."

Romano turned on Italy, fury clouding his features. "How did this happen? As long as you're connected to your people-" Italy guiltily averted his brother's gaze. "That's it? Isn't it?" Romano asked as he checked once again for any signs that Veneziano was healing. Finding nothing, his voice broke. "You cut your connection?"

Instead of answering, Italy knelt down next to the small child, his lips curved in a gentle smile. Despite his injuries, she didn't seem to be afraid of him.

She placed a small palm on his cheek."Signor, you're hurt."

Holding her palm, Itlay replied, "It's all right, Felicia. It doesn't hurt. It just looks bad." He gestured to Romano."This is your brother, Romano. He's going to take care of you from now on. Is that okay with you?"

The young girl pinned Romano with her wide, innocent amber eyes, and then nodded eagerly.

Italy laughed. "That's good. But you have to promise me something. Are you listening? This is very important." Again, she nodded, until she looked a little like a bobble head. "A long time ago, my grandpa asked me to rebuild the Roman Empire. I promised him I would, but I never had the strength or the motivation to make good on that promise. Do you think you could rebuild the Roman Empire in my place?"

"What are you talking about, Italy?" Germany asked.

Prussia added, "Yeah, Italy, you can rebuild the Roman Empire yourself, as long as you don't actually need anybody else's land to build it."

"Additional land is required when it comes to building an empire." The Great British Empire added, clearly reminiscing.

France rolled his eyes.

Instead of dealing with all of this, Italy decided to conveniently pass out. His body shuddered slightly, then he toppled to the ground, eternally scarring his younger sister, brother, and friends, who all ran to his side.

For some reason, America remembered how little Italy had reacted to having his right arm on fire, so he bent down in order to surreptitiously check that it was solid. Luckily, instead of passing through, his palm met bone and flesh. That was a relief.

He looked up to see Canada staring at him with concern and smiled, nonverbally passing on the message that Italy didn't seem to be disappearing the way he had.

A soft snore interrupted Germany and Romano's desperate attempts to wake him up, prompting a soft, surprised laugh from Germany and a relieved string of curses from Romano.

A report went off in the distance, narrowing missing Prussia's head, followed by a scream, "GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY!"

Since the time to start running had officially arrived, as heralded by the angry Swiss with the gun, Germany gathered Italy in his arms, Romano picked up Felicia, and together, they plus all of the other nations starting pumping their arms and legs as they ran for the border.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FILL ALL OF YOU WITH SO MANY HOLES YOU'LL LOOK LIKE MY CHEESE!"

"Someone needs to take away his peace prize." France wryly commented. Branches started whipping at their arms and legs once they actually made it into the forest.

"Didn't we just see a wolf in here?" England replied, looking around nervously as he did.

Russia called out to America, who was running ahead of him "We are friends now, yes?"

"You sure you want to talk about that now?"

"…Da."

America groaned. "Can't we just pretend I never said anything embarrassing during the last few days and go back to being rivals?"

Russia pretended to ponder this for a few seconds, then smiled blandly, "No."

As they ran, Italy let his focus drop, and sighed once he saw that his entire arm became transparent the second he did. It seemed that cutting off his connection to his people had been more permanent than he'd hoped it would be, though not more permanent than he'd expected it to be.

Sure, getting a little sister had never occurred to him, but he was sure Romano would raise her well. As for him… he was probably going to be spending some time in Germany.

 

Once the nations got past the border, Switzerland seemed to stop trampling over trees in his rapid attempt to find them and grind their bones to make his bread. Honestly, the guy was rather small, but he could probably force a giant into a submission hold and then make it pay for all the property damages he'd caused, too. Such a scary guy.

Since they were in the clear, Russia, China, and Japan decided that it was time they went home. Feeling generous, America called for Tony, whose plane appeared above them almost before America even finished calling his name.

"I thought I told him to take that back to China." Japan complained.

America shrugged. "You're lucky he didn't listen. If he took that plane back to China, we'd all be walking home."

After they all finished gathering in the plane, and Tony finished tearfully hugging America, England asked the question that was bothering all of them.

"How can there be two North Italy's?" His heavy brow furrowed as he concentrated on the impossibility.

"Maybe it can't be explained" France suggested as he glanced out the window. "Just like we cannot explain how Prussia remains among us despite his dissolution, perhaps it is a miracle."

"Or" Russia interjected. "Maybe, like Prussia, it is just taking him longer to disappear than it should." Germany glared at him from his seat more towards the back of the row, along with several of the other nations. "You know, when you guys look at me like that, I get the feeling you do not like me very much."

"You should trust your gut, Russia." America commented.

"Now, is that what a friend should say?"

"I'm not your friend."

"Ah, but that's not what you said-"

"ARRRGHHH!" America exclaimed, tugging at his knotted hair with frustration as he did. Some small chuckles were had at his expense.

In the back of the row, Germany cradled Italy as Felicia played with Romano and Spain. Eventually, Italy woke up and played with her too.

It was hard to focus on playing with the child and solidifying his arm, but he had a feeling he might not get a chance to see her again, so he did his best to please her. She had a beautiful laugh, like church bells on a Sunday or song birds in the early morning.

Back in the front of the plane, the conversation plateaued, giving America a chance to see that his brother was looking unusually depressed. He changed seats so he could talk to his brother in relative privacy.

"What's up, bro? Why the long face?"

"We never got your glasses back." Canada admitted, gripping his hands in his lap. "I know they're important to you," He fingered his own glasses "But things just happened so fast. It never really occurred to me that we'd forgotten them until now."

The very prospect of his brother digging barehanded through the remains of the mansion that had taken their lives sent equal measure of fear and amusement through him.

"That's fine." America quickly answered."I don't need them." _Not like I need you._ "Not really. If Texas wants to come back, it can always manifest itself again."

"That's not good, America. Glasses are important."

"Yeah, they are. But there are things in my life that are more important, and I haven't lost any of those. Not this time."

 

When it was Russia's turn to leave the plane, Italy asked him if he could ask him a question, much to the horror of everyone who valued Italy's life.

"Sure" Russia replied, amiably.

"If I were a human" Feliciano started in a soft voice, hoping that he wouldn't be overheard by the others. "Could I spend the rest of my life with the person I loved the most?"

"Da, you could. But, Italy, you are not a human."

"Si, I know. It's just that I think it's worth a try." He glanced quickly at Germany as he struggled to make silly faces for Felicia, and laughed when he saw that all Germany's silly faces had done was make her cry.

Russia glanced in the same direction,"Perhaps." _But it will make the person you love very sad, indeed._

 

When it was Spain's turn to leave, Romano decided to go with him, and Italy insisted that he take little Felicia as well. It was hard to say no when Felicia herself seemed so eager to stay with Romano, though she also loved Italy, as shown when she blushed furiously when Feliciano gave her the formal goodbye, a kiss on both cheeks.

Italy also gave the same farewell to Spain and his brother, but when he finished kissing Romano's cheeks, he fiercely embraced him. For once, Romano didn't push him away.

"Don't cry, idiot" Romano said as he patted his brother's hair. "We'll see each other again soon. I'll explain everything to the Prime Minister, and if that doesn't work, we can dress you up like Mario and say you're my long lost cousin."

Italy sniffled, forcing his face to look cheerful as he said, "I know. We'll meet again. We always do."

 

In the end, Canada decided to take America back to his home in Washington DC. Though America asked Italy to tell Paulo he was taking a raincheck on that visit, he really did want to see his people and his beautiful country again.

Since his twin brother was still in a semi-vulnerable state, Canada decided that he would be his strength until he fully recovered. After all, if their roles were reversed, America would do the same for him. He'd be more loud and annoying, but he'd do the same, nonetheless.

"You want to play hockey when we get back to my house?" asked America when they stepped off of the plane.

Confused, Canada replied, "But I thought you always wanted to play baseball?"

"I'm fine with playing hockey every now and then, too." A natural grin lit up his face. "This doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you, though."

Since the most popular sport in Canada was hockey, he actually stood a fighting chance at beating his brother in it. He laughed, saying with confidence, "Bring it!"

England and France also volunteered to see America home safely.

"Hey, Angleterre, you want to play hockey?"

"Not on your life, Frog."

Italy, Germany, and Prussia were all dropped off at Germany's house. They waved at the invisible plane as it raced to get back to China before anyone noticed it was missing. Actually, it was too late for that, but Japan and China should be fine as long as they have a talking alien with them.

 

The bandages on Italy's face, head, arms, and sides were from Germany's emergency first aid kit. He had bought the kit soon after meeting Italy, and refilled it every month. Actually, the words, 'Italy's First Aid Kit' could be found on the kit's cover, written in neatly formed letters with a permanent marker many decades ago.

"Germany, Germany, let's go outside. The stars are shining bright, Germany. Germany?"

Grunting, the German nation reluctantly rolled out of bed. "What do you want to do again?"

Italy smiled, instantly making Germany feel better about his decision to roll out of bed. "I want to see the stars with you."

Before he knew it, Germany was outside, the wet earth clinging to and chilling his bare feet.

"Now, close your eyes, Germany." Italy insisted.

At first, he refused, but the Italian, who had grown considerably in the last few days, begged him so he complied.

A gentle hand found its way onto his shoulder, the sensation as light as a floating mist, just as another hand wrapped around his neck. "Like this, we are going to dance."

"But there isn't any music!"

"Of course there is." A strange, soothing melody reverberated from behind Italy's lips, it sounded like the lullaby he'd said Hungary had used to sing to him at Austria's house.

They danced slowly; circling under the night sky like they were floating in their own world and nothing else mattered.

There was a slight breeze, a movement in the air that felt god on their skin.

"You know, I never answered you before." A pink flush crept up Germany's neck, since he knew exactly what Italy was referring to. For some reason, dread began to pool in his stomach, but he dismissed as simple anxiety. "You see, I've liked you for a very long time, but I didn't think telling you would change anything, and I was always so very happy simply being by your side... But knowing that you feel the same way towards me as I do towards you" Suddenly, his voice sounded strained. "It makes me really happy Germany. Happier than I ever thought I'd be."

The urge to open his eyes was almost unbearable, but he fought it, because something told him the wonderful moment would end the second he opened his eyes. One of his hands reached out into the dark, finding Italy's cheek all on it own. Germany smiled at how warm it felt.

"Ti amo, Germany. I love you." Slowly, he traced the curve of his cheek until he felt the smile on Italy's lips. His other moved to caress the other side of Italy, but instead of feeling more warmth, he was shocked to feel the cool wetness of tears on his finger tips.

"Italy? Vat's going on?"

Just as he was about to open his eyes, two trembling hands covered them. "Don't look, Germany!"

Gently, Germany pulled the slender arms away from his eyes, and looked to see… nothing. There was no Italian, no arms around his neck or hands on his face. Not even the words of love that he had spoken had lingered in the cool night air.

For what must have been hours, he searched, shouted, until his feet bled and his voice turned hoarse, never finding him even as the stars began to dim.

"Italy" whispered Germany, sounding like a small, lost child. "Gehen sie nicht."

_Don't go._

 

A late night knock on the door summoned Hungary to the front steps of Austria's house. She was wearing her usual emerald dress and bonnet when she opened the door to see a very strained looking Germany standing on her doorstep. A few feet away, her childhood friend, Prussia, could be seen reclining against Austria's mailbox. He was facing her, his face unusually solemn and pale- even for him- in the soft moonlight.

"Miss Hungary" Germany struggled with himself, choking out the words, "Italy is gone."

"Oh." She said cheerfully. "Is he hiding? I could help you look."

A quivering hand gently held her arm, she looked up, and noticing just how red Germany's eyes were, listened as he said, "He's not hiding, Miss Hungary. He's gone."

Almost all sound seemed to cease after that. Germany's lips kept moving but the only sound she could hear was the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. Prussia watched on as her feet fell out from under her, leaving her a broken, sobbing heap on the ground at Germany's feet.

It was the first time he'd ever seen her cry.


	16. Auf Wiedersehen

The night sky was as busy as ever when Austria saw Hungary sobbing, assumed the two brothers were at fault (and they sort of were) and then proceeded to kick them off of his property until he could get a better idea of just what was going on. Germany bowed his head and left gracefully. Prussia didn't say a word. He just turned and left, leaving his friend to comfort the girl they'd both grown up with, because the guy who could dry her tears wasn't him. No matter what he did, he was the only guy who could make her cry.

As they were walking back to their house, a shooting star ripped through the sky, brightening the darkness for a split second, burning their eyes and their hearts. That split second was far too little to do anyone any good.

It was for that reason that no wishes were uttered. Instead, in a rare moment of brotherly bonding, the two raised their middle fingers towards the heavens in perfect unison.

 

After Russia was told of Veneziano's disappearance, he decided it was time to pay his sisters a visit. It had been a long time since he'd last told them how important they were to him.

Belarus was watering her garden when he appeared, huffing and puffing in her yard. She was surprised to see he was breathing heavily, and more than that, she was surprised to see that he had visited her. Usually, he only visited Ukraine, and that was only when she allowed him too. Sweat poured from his forehead as though he had run all the way from his house to her's, which was very close to being accurate. At one point he'd hopped on a bus.

Instead of speaking when she tried to stammer out a greeting, Russsia simply wrapped his arms around her, breathing in her scent like he'd been afraid he'd never see again.

Once the shock wore off, she allowed herself a small smile, and then wrapped her arms around her brother's broad body just like she used to when they were kids.

 

Germany awoke in his bed the same way he always used to before he met the Italian nation. There was no one smiling up at him when he opened his eyes, no warm hand holding his. There was only the cold, empty spot in the sheets beside him to keep him company as he woke to the first of his many colorless days.

_Good morning, Germany._ Ve ~Let's have fun today, Germany. I want to eat pasta.

"How many times do I have to tell you too much pasta is bad for you?" He grumbled as he walked along the cobble stone path to Italy's house. The plan for the day was to pick up his things. It wasn't what he wanted to do. If it were up to him, he'd leave the house the way it was, always waiting for Italy's return. But there was always a chance someone could raid it if he simply left it alone.

_B-But I love pasta!_

"I know that. That's vhy if you can complete ten laps, I'll take you out for pasta. Better get started, you only have half an hour to complete them."

_That's too hard!_

There were some odd glances from the passerby and dog walkers who noticed the strange German soldier walking down the road, speaking amiably with the empty air. It wasn't too hard for him to ignore them since they didn't even register. "With all the time you've spent complaining you could have had one lap done already. Now get going. I'll take you for pasta when you're finished" He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed; food was always the only way he could get Italy to do anything. "… And Italy?" The cheerful face in his mind paused. There was a difference in the German's tone that even he would have noticed, a rarely heard hesitance.

_Ve~ What is it?_

"Make sure you come back. You have to come back." Suddenly, the sweet voice in his head was gone. Almost frantic, Germany began to run as he tried to drag the voice back, to reimagine his hair and the way the sunlight would light up his face or the way his smile would just make everything ugly or sad in his life fade into the background like they were nothing compared to the bouncing embodiment of happiness that was standing right in front of him...

By the time he reached the little mud house with the Felicia flowers Italy had tended, he was out of breath and barely standing on his feet. All the same, he made it up the path, entering the house with a tall back and soft feet, or as soft as he could manage with his clunky boots on.

It wasn't all that different from when they had stayed over a few days ago. Folded on the mattress, lay the blue uniform he'd worn, and hanging in his kitchen was the painting he'd drawn over the summer. It was the three of them, Japan, Italy, and him, all holding hands in an Austrian field full of yellow and purple flowers, glossy grass, and tall trees in the background. As he watched, the color began to drain from the painting. In his arms, the blue uniform faded to a washed out gray. He clutched it to his chest and raced outside to see that the sky, the grass, the flowers- everything was being painted over in shades of black and white.

Of course. It only made sense that without him, all the color in the world would be stolen from his sight. He put a heavy hand over his eyes, so no one would see him break.

 

France glanced at the stubble on his chin. Since he couldn't exactly grow a beard in Italy's honor, he decided to shave the one he already had, instead. At least for a little while, he'd wear his face cleanly. Jean probably would've liked that.

 

The news reached America sooner than anyone would have liked, and it goes without saying that it hit him pretty hard.

It was the day after they'd finally gotten home and he was busy at a hot stove, making Mickey Mouse pancakes for England. Delicious, fluffy white batter poured into a sizzling hot pan while England, his hair tousled after a restless night of fighting off France, waited impatiently at the small round dinner table for breakfast.

Since it wasn't often he got the chance to cook for England, he really wanted it to be special. He'd even asked Canada for some of his maple syrup to make the whole thing perfect, but then his cell phone rang.

It was lying next to the stove, so he figured he could easily balance between his shoulder and ear while he waited for the batter bubble. When he was a child, it was France who'd taught him to wait for the bubbles before flipping the pancakes. His other parental figure had told him to wait for the smoke. Idly, he wondered if England preferred his food burned to a black crisp.

England stopped drumming the table he noticed the America's broad back stiffen. Whatever the reason for it was, it must have something to do with what the person on the other end of the phone was saying. Protests of disbelief kept spewing out of his mouth as the tension continued to mount and the pancakes began to burn.

After hanging up, he trashed the pancakes, dumped the pan in the sink, and then slumped against the counter, his hand gripping the bridge of his nose.

Standing up to ask him what was wrong, England asked, "What happened, America? Who's gone?" Were they lost? Hiding? They couldn't have dissolved. If that had happened to one of the others, he definitely wouldn't be hearing about it from a second hand source.

Instead of answering his questions, America sighed and said, "England, I need you to leave."

Immediately, pain flashed across England's fair skinned face. Here he was, reaching out, and yet his former charge still wouldn't let him in. What an ungrateful little-

"Fine!" He yelled, gathering his things as quickly as he could. "I'll leave just don't expect me to-"

America cut him off, "I'll see you tomorrow, England." Hesistating for a second, the British nation refused to look up, but he also stopped moving to leave. "Tomorrow, I'll smile for you, so please make your scones for me."

"Why should I make anything for you when you ruined my pancakes and kicked me out of your house?" Before he even knew what he was doing, he was holding the screen door open, waiting for the blue-eyed man, who wouldn't quite look him in the eye, to say anything that would make him stay.

There wasn't anything America could think of that would make him stay, and he honestly wanted him to leave, so he just met his eyes, sky blue to forest green, and said thickly, "Goodbye, England."

The door slammed shut.

Once he was sure England was really gone, America pulled his pan out of the sink and threw it through the nearest windowpane. Then he toppled over the table, breaking all of the porcelain plates he'd set out for breakfast. When it was just him, he always used paper plates, but today it wasn't supposed to have been just him.

Next, he tore through his glass cabinet, breaking every cup, every jar, every mug with a stupid Benjamin Franklin quote he could find until the tile floor was covered with shattered glass and kitchenware.

He would have kept at until a soft cough at the pantry startled him. Standing by the pantry, was Canada.

Sheepishly, America put down the chair he'd been getting ready to throw, blinked, and focused on the boy with blond hair standing behind him. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I've been here the whole time", replied Canada. "Do you feel like telling me what's happened?"

While brushing the hair away from his face and surveying the damage he'd caused, America got around to telling his brother that Italy had disappeared the other day. So much for a miracle, right?

"We were supposed to win this one." He continued. "All of us were supposed to live this time, ya know? This was our perfect run. Not one of us died. It had to be, because we weren't getting any reruns. No more loops. No more second chances. This was it, and I failed. He did everything we talked about, but I tried to get you guys involved, and then I got captured, and I ruined everything!" The words began to rise in pitch and volume, but Canada stood his ground. It wasn't when his brother was strong that he needed someone by his side, it was when he was falling apart at the seams, and right then, he needed someone by his side. "I let my emotions dictate my actions and it put everyone in danger."

Slowly, he gripped America by the shoulders, forcing him to look him in the eyes and listen to what he had to say. "Italy did what he chose to do. Don't take that away from him by trying to shoulder all the blame yourself. I think- if he were here, he'd want you to stop focusing so hard on what happened in the past and move on. Don't you think you've suffered enough? Do you really think you beating yourself up about what happened would make him happy?"

It wasn't enough. How could he have possibly suffered enough? But… No, it wouldn't have made him happy. Not at all.

A reflection in a pane of shattered glass on the floor nearly sent him to climbing towards the ceiling. At a closer glance, he could see that his eyes were bloodshot, his face was lined, and his hair was a limp, tangled mop of sweaty strands. He was dirty, exhausted, and he felt too sick to think straight, so he allowed himself to collapse into his brother's arms, knowing he would catch him when he fell.

_**Ten Months Later** _

There's a little town built on top of a mountain in Northwest Italy.

Many of the buildings in Seborga were centuries old, their foundations made from stone, and he was very proud of all of them. It was a Saturday, a big tourism day and he was busy chatting up some very lovely French ladies. They were interested in the Templar Knight, which was lucky because he just happened to know everything there was to know about the Templar Knights.

Posing as a tour guide was one of his favorite hobbies. It gave him the perfect opportunity to flirt with girls from all the different corners of the world. In particular, he liked French girls- like the two currently clinging to his arms- American girls, Italian girls, Spanish girls…. Actually, there probably wasn't a girl he didn't like. As long as they were pretty and nice, and nice and pretty, it didn't matter where they came from.

Even though he was the youngest of his brothers, Seborga appeared to be in his early twenties. However, if he were a human, he'd probably just be a very mature looking seventeen year old.

When the girls asked he seemed to know the names of everyone, he just shrugged their question off with a rascally grin. Obviously, he knew everyone in Seborga because he was Seborga, but he couldn't very well tell them that.

The girls by his side were apparently college girls who'd decided to spend their summer sight-seeing the greatest country in the entire world. The girl on his right had a light flush on her porcelain cheeks thanks to the sun's rays, freckles spattered across the bridge of her nose, and wavy, blond hair. To his left, her friend had chocolate colored, curly hair, tanned skin, and a smile that always seemed sort of lopsided, so he could never tell if she was genuinely enjoying herself or if she was simply amused by him.

The buildings they walked past on their tour were centuries old, some of them still had people living in them. Much of their foundations were made of stone, just like how the road they walked on was also made of stone, the very same stone the knights walked on when they came to visit. Adaliz, that was the name belonging to the girl on his left, cooed at the sight of vines creeping down from a second story balcony.

"I would love to live here." At their feet, planted palms and ferns added further color to contrast against the ever-present gray of the stone. Some of the buildings were even painted yellow, adding cheer to a city that welcomed tourists and history nerds every day.

All at once, the girls around him began begging him to introduce them to a man he'd never seen before. "You know everyone, right?" Yes, he had said that, hadn't he? "Can you introduce us to him?" Well, whatever. It was impossible for there to be a human in Seborga he didn't know so…

He followed their pointed fingers to a man with his long, dark brown hair tied in a crimson ribbon, a stray curl springing from the side of his head, and loose fitting white wardrobe. The man appeared to be Italian, and only a few years older than Seborga appeared, so that probably put his age around twenty-six. Taller than Spain, and sporting a sharp jawline and sharp cheekbones, Seborga suddenly felt rather self conscious about his own looks, something he'd always been rather confident about. More importantly, only unregistered humans and nations could enter without being detected, so either he was unregistered or- Why was that curl so familiar?

His silence drew the attention of the French girls, who began to teasingly suggest that he had finally met someone that he'd never met before. He agreed, but added, "You're right. It's impossible, but I don't know who that man is." They protested when he disentangeled himself to follow the strange Italian man he'd never met before, but all he took was a single blink, and when he looked up, the man was gone.

"Fratello?"

 

Shopping in Seborga had not been Romano's idea, and bringing his little sister. plus that sad sack, potato eating bastard, Germany, had NOT been his idea, but Spain had asked him to and the stupid German had looked so pathetic for ever so he couldn't just say no.

It was crowded in the stone streets of Seborga. Supposedly, they were supposed to be getting his boss tomatoes for that night's dinner (Felicia loved pasta) but they all knew traveling from South Italy to North Italy for tomatoes was just another way of saying they were going to see Seborga.

Living with his sorella for the past few months had been like living with an overactive puppy. She was adorable… until she started chewing on your couch. Had he and Veneziano really been such a handful when they were younger?

Even though she was young, she loved to dance and sing. Romano made it a point to never keep her cooped up inside of the house, and to pay enough attention to her so he would definitely not be surprised when she reached puberty. Actually, he refused to let Spain bath her until she learned how to use a Taser, so he knew for sure that his sorella really was a sorella. Also, she was never ever going anywhere near France or Russia if he had breath left in his body.

Every now and then, some strange women would stop him and tell him how cute his younger sister was. Of course he knew how cute his sister was! Why else would he lift her up like a football and run every time they passed a boy around kindergarten age?

While he was looking at the fresh produce and keeping an eye out for Seborga, he decided to make sure Felicia, who was bouncing on his pant leg while stealing curious glances at the sulky German, knew the drill.

"Felicia" He said sharply, making her jump. "What do you do if a boy asks you your name?"

"I run." She recited.

"And if he asks you your age?"

"I run." Romano rose an eyebrow, impressed.

"And if he calls you 'cute' or tries to hold your hand?"

She smiled. "I kick him in the balls and then I run." Romano ruffled her feathery hair affectionately.

Standing a little ways away from them, leaning lightly against a stall, was Germany. He had to deal with all the accusing glances from women who couldn't fathom that a little girl could know curse words without it being his fault. A quick glance at the food in the small market revealed lightish gray cucumbers, darkish gray broccoli, gray carrots, and that a large, unappetizing gray tomato was currently under inspection as a possible candidate for that night's pasta.

It was really nice of Romano and Spain to let him come over and spend time with Felicia sometimes. He knew Romano put on a big show of not wanting him around, but the guy never actually really tried to get him to leave. If anything, all the threats and bluster seemed more like the remnants of a half-broken habit.

A little cough at his feet startled him to attention. Having somehow teleported in front of him without his noticing at thing was Felicia. She stood, twirling her dress as though waiting for him to say something. It was the dress Spain had gotten for her the other day. The torso part was definitely black, but the ruffles could have been any darker color from red to purple.

"What do you think of my dress?"

"Well, it's, uh" She waited patiently for the words to travel from his brain to his mouth. He cleared his throat. "It's not very practical for warm weather."

Although she put on a shaky smile for him, he knew he'd disappointed her. When she returned to Romano's side, clearly crestfallen, Romano sent him a questioning look. He was probably wondering why Germany didn't just tell her he couldn't see colors. But if he did that, he'd have to tell her why, and he just didn't think he could bear to see her face fall when he mentioned her brother.

The only memory she had of Italy was one where he'd smiled warmly at her and asked her to rebuild the Roman Empire. After that, she'd never seen him again. Spain and Romano had told her he was 'gone', but she had no idea what that meant. Where did he go to, and if she made the Roman Empire for him like he'd asked her to, would he come back? And if he came back, would Germany smile again?

Determined, she marched back out to speak with the blond nation, a small frown on her round and painfully familiar face. "Help me rebuild the Roman Empire."

Germany stared blankly at her for a few seconds, brushed the hair away from his face, and then burst into unsettling laughter. Unfortunately, he was no longer interested in building empires.

One shuddering breath later, he'd regained his composure and was staring out at the passing crowd. As for the little girl, she tried poking him and waving for his attention, but eventually, Romano asked her for her help finding just the right seasoning for that night. It wasn't unusual for Romano to distract her, but still, Germany was grateful.

All at once, a man dressed in white cloth caught his eye.

At first, he was searching for a white shirt in a sea of blacks and greys, but as he pushed his way through the crowd, colors began to surge back into his surroundings, brighter than he'd ever remembered them being.

_It was evening when Paulo walked out onto his porch for a cigar. The house Italy used to stay in hadn't been grown over by weeds, bushes, and vines, but that was only because he always tended to it in his spare time._

_The kids were only trying to do right by him when they offered to help him tend to the place. Still, he didn't want to hand over the honor to anyone else just yet._

_As he watched, the sun sunk below the horizon and the sky turned a beautiful, rich shade of tangerine. A few more minutes passed, the yellow leaves on the trees sunk into shadow, and even his friend's abode was swallowed by the empty and lightless tresses of the night._

_Yet again, there was no light lit in his window. The old man fired up his cigar and sighed._

_Something stirred near the bottom of his porch stairs. At first he ignored it, figuring it to be a raccoon of some sort. They'd seemed to take a liking to living under his porch in the springtime, so it made sense, but then a deep-throated groan set him on edge. It was a very human sounding groan._

_Leaping from his seat, he quickly put out the cigar, and strode to the railings. Looking down, he saw the sort of good looking young man he'd only expected to see half-naked on the cover of some fashion magazine with no clothes in sight. He was as bare as the day he'd come out of the womb._

_Since he couldn't just leave the kid to sleep the night away on his front lawn, Paulo hefted one of the boy's arms around his neck. As they trudged around the side of the house- Paulo's brilliant idea is to try and sneak him into his room the way a child would a lost kitten- his wife, Corinne, caught the two of them. Right around the same time, the boy began to regain his senses._

_The first thing he saw was Paulo's wife angrily berating him for bringing home a drunk hoodlum, though she kept glancing at his abs like she didn't actually mind as much as she was pretending to. At least, he hoped she was glancing at his abs._

_The couple watched, momentarily distracted, as he flushed furiously and tried to cover himself._

_"I'm so sorry." He sputtered, still feeling as lost and bewildered as ever._

_"Honey" Corinne said gently. "I don't know why you're here, but I want you to know that I've seen a male's bare bottom before. You've got nothing to be ashamed of around me. Now, let's get you dressed before my granddaughters can get a good look at you."_

_Hours passed, hours Paulo spent imagining what sort of horrors his wife and daughters were putting the poor kid through. When the man of the hour actually came back out of the house, well fed and significantly healthier, his long hair was tied back in a ribbon and his shirt was long, light, and flowing. He looked like a slender version of Fabio._

_"I look like a gay pirate." He grumbled after Paulo attempted to compliment him on his outfit with a straight face._

_He laughed. "You didn't say that to the_ girls _did you?"_

_The question seemed to upset the boy._

_"Of course not!" He answered. "I'm a stranger to them, yet they fed me and gave me clothes. How could I possibly complain about the sort of ridiculous clothes they gave me?"_

_Smiling, the old man gestured to the rocking seat beside him. "You see that house over there?" The boy nodded warily. "I've been waiting for a friend of mine to come back there for months. He hasn't come back yet, but I think I'll keep waiting. After all-"_

_"I promised your granddaughter I'd come back." Feliciano, the personification of the entire Italian nation, finished for him._

 

The retreating back was taller, more muscular, but he was sure it belonged to Italy. Yellows, blues, purples- all these colors swam through his vision as he attempted to bulldoze his way through the ground. And just as he was finally within reach, another wave of tourists crashed into him, sending him sprawling.

Peals of laughter and inane conversations floated over his head as he struggled to stagger his way back to his feet. He filled his lungs with air, ready to begin shouting, when a pair of firm hands steadied him.

The face was different, the skin was darker, but his smile was exactly the same.

"Ciao, Germany."


End file.
